Naanima

I will tell you a tale,

Its' about my maternal grandama.

Pardon me if it does not rhyme,
For it is not a crime.

She lays supine
Withered with age.

About which when asked,

Says, "Nineteen when I married,

After seven years had your mother,

You know your mother's age,

So use a calculator for your advantage."

Lying down in the same room.

Within the confine of four walls.

How suffocating it can be,

You and I will never feel.

The pain, the pangs, and throes,

I will be out of words describing her woes.

Just lying and staring at the ceiling,

Her turmoil is evident,

and there is no concealing.

She cannot even turn

And sleep on her side,

All she dreams of is her last ride,

For she feels, she is an encumberance to her only child.

But I know it is not so.

For my mother is at peace,

Knowing my Grandame is by her side.