i remember
in colours, in smells, in feelings
the things my mum
would tell me about myself
about when i was a kid.
suddenly, they spring
like a field of sunflowers
you pass everyday to the bus-stop
but never noticed.

those memories
sat in my head (or slept)
waiting for me to reach out to them
but then, i think they got fed-up
and reached out to me

at the right time too
because i was slipping away
refolding into myself
and they came along
like godmothers of some sort
and handed me tapes of the past

and when i saw myself
around 4 and 7 and 10
they did something to me
they grasped me, and bottled away
my sadness and told me
that they believed in their future
(which, funnily enough, i realise, is me)
and that i should never give up
just the way they never did too.