School is over and we get home in the heat that I don’t remember particularly well. The boys talk, I listen, and as we pull up in their car I look at you. You are at the door. Somehow you were always there, waiting for us. I get out and am happy to be home. After washing away the sticky-sweaty day of children, we eat the yummy things you made for us. You always made it fun with your silly accents, and as we played with our food I was happy.
We were never messy, just silly, the lot of us. Serving ourselves, acting grown-up. How badly I wanted to be grown-up back then, driving that car like your best friend. Her Reva was a fantasy for me, somehow that has stayed with me, from age 8 to 18, it was a toy I longed for.
I think back, I remember the macaroni, the little samosas, the bakes, the meals you made so lovingly. What I remember more was the time you spent with us. The games we played. The kids’ shows you sat through. The art projects we embarked on. The visits to the park. The train journeys we spent hours of our lives on. The pooris we made together. The stories you read us. All the times you listened when I came home sad, the way you didn’t make my problems small. I remember those days.
It seems so long ago. Our roles have shifted. We talk to each other about our days, it is different. My thoughts are my own. You share more, I share less, but the balance has worked itself out. I am not a child, but I am your child. I cannot and do not want to forget that, even though you make me want to sometimes.