My Mother by Anushka Das

my mother is decreasing

she tip toes barefoot about the house to not make a murmur of her existence

my mother is contracting

she nibbles at our leftovers until the morsels choke the base of her throat

my mother is dwindling

she has a shadow which attempts to detach itself and a reflection which strives to crack open the mirror

my mother is shriveling

she is a ghost wearing cheap moisturizer laden skin over appendages that rattle when she moves

my mother is condensing

she cries but within time slots to not allow the full throttle of her sorrow to manifest

my mother is recoiling

she stands at the edge of family photos such that one of her limbs is always cut out

my mother is shrinking

she has an arched back that curls more inwards as she makes up space for us

my mother is a frail framework of brittle bones and tattered tissues

she has nourished this house with enough love to call it a home but every corner bears shackles the size of her withering wrists

her larynx is a morgue with unsaid words rotting like unidentified cadavers

my mother is one-fourth the woman she could be three-fourths the woman she had to be

so I excavated years of generational expectations from in-between her vertebrae and asked her to straighten her spine

I told her that I will always look up to her