The fortnight of festivities and homecomings has come and gone.
As loved ones fly back to their lives elsewhere
I recoil into the comfort of maternal bonding.
Consecutive weeks of twin-night partying at the clubs
Have eaten into my weekly QT with mom.
This week I decided to do it right.
It was an afternoon at Little India,
And over banana-leaf curry, free flow lime juice, sequinned sari, intricate ruby-crusted jewellery, and ginger tea,
We talked like we used to on Sunday mornings in Melbourne -
Me in my bath robe, plonked on the kitchen counter, coffee in hand;
She, hands always busy with something or another.
Mom and I have a great relationship-
One of cotton wool tenderness and heroic mutual respect.
And astonishing telepathy:
She always knows when something is wrong; we even ring each other at the exact same time.
The woman who has seen me through my unbelievably horrific growing pains, relationship catastrophes, and born the brunt of my mood rock and rolls,
Who has somewhat softened through the years,
And these days prefers sitting in front of the oven to watch the roast
Over a whisky on the rocks.
***
Miss Chew, who leaves tomorrow morning:
Do take care, and remember sweetheart,
You can walk out anytime. Tweak the obstinance, we'll be here to catch you.