When I am born, I know only of my mother. For nine months her body has nurtured my body and we moved as one. Now, her milk nourishes my tiny system and her arms protect me from the world.
When I am 2, I love my mother more than anyone. She reads me stories and she makes me food; cutting it into sticks. She cuddles me when I am sad and she strokes my back when I am ill.
When I am 12, I need my mother less. I roll my eyes at her half the time and desperately seek her approval the other half. I am no longer a child, but not yet an adult. I am confused.
When I am 16, I hate my mother. Everything she says is wrong and everything she does is embarrassing. She will never understand what I am going through. I am impatient and angry. I stomp a lot.
When I am 25, I am ambivalent towards my mother. I am making my own way in the world and I am on my own path. I am trying new things and my friends are the most important thing in my life.
When I am 35, I am more comfortable with myself and less worried about how I am perceived. I am also a parent now and I often ask my own mother for help and advice. I appreciate her and I listen to what she has to say.
When I am 45, my mother is my best friend. We spend hours chatting on the phone and we go to the movies together. We laugh at the same jokes and we go walking on Sundays. We enjoy each others company.
When I am 65, I have a photo of my mother beside my bed. I wish I could share one more cup of tea with her and talk the night away. Her laughter floats in my memory.
When I am 65, I miss my mother.
I wish I could see her just one more time.