Preserving Conversations

We are in the middle of summer vacation. The last 3 summer vacations have been hard for us. Hot and a handful.
It is Saturday morning, we are at the breakfast table.
Sahar: So, what are we going to do today?
Me: We are going to celebrate today.
Sahar: What are we celebrating?
Me: Ourselves.
Sahar: Oh.
Me: We are celebrating what a beautiful family we are and what a beautiful home we live in.
Sahar: Oh.
On the table, mangoes, litchis, butter, cheese, chocolate cake, parathas, curd, chutney, bhindi and whatnot. In the background, new curtains, glowing as they keep the sun out and let the colours in. We have rearranged the furniture a bit. Afzal is at home, our guests have left.

Meanwhile, I realized another reason that I write this blog. 
When I go all wrong and wound up and demented with stress around my children, I try to remember how my mother spoke to us when we were children.
I can’t remember much. It is very blank and silent. I look for words and phrases in that darkness and I am amazed at how I cannot find much from the daily life we must have had. 

I am the one in the family with the deep memory. I remember and cherish everything. Yet, this gap.
I don’t remember and cherish the most important thing. Talking to Mum, being spoken to by Mum.
I suspect that is where I learnt how to be absent.
So anyway, enough wallowing.
Just that I realized a subconscious reason for writing this blog. To preserve conversations. Because conversations are the thread with which we weave. The fabric of our life. Yes.

Almost 40

I am intolerant, sometimes intolerable.
I am better than I know I am.
I knew this once when I was a child, but it got buried.
The winds were strong, the dust loose.
I know this about myself again.
Almost 40, almost Mum, almost wife.
Almost myself.