​I know I’ve been hurt before.

Running after ma, as a toddler,
and bruising my knees against the solid ground.

Or fighting dada over the smallest things,
but he showed he cares when my tooth fell off.

It didn’t always hurt to bleed, though.

Like when I donated blood on turning 18!

I still have the yellow smiley brooch they gave me.

Numerous times I’ve cut my poor finger.

I had a tough time to learn cooking,
Daddy’s princess turned a queen, you see.

The best of all? It was when I bled to give birth.

It seemed like aeons lying on the table, pushing harder by the minute.

But oh, her little cry still rings in my mind like a sweet jingle.

Every time it was worth the pain.

What about now, you wonder?

Now when I bleed, it isn’t blood that transpires.

It’s my emotions.

Emblazoned in bold on my wrinkled skin.

They shine at the brightest now,
after being concealed for so many years.

They are forgiving, I must say,
for I’ve let them out for my own selfish needs.

Yet they don’t complain.

I wish every human had this quality.

I wish I had this quality.

Such a pity it took me 80 years of life and 
a month’s solitude to realize the value of forgiveness.

I hope, you’re smarter than I was; that you learn from my mistake;
that you be the superior one, and forgive your wrong-doer.

Dada ~ an elder brother
Ma ~ mother

©The Honest Fabler
©Cover Credits-Google Images


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