She gives birth at the age of twenty-three, overflowing with happiness, brimming with hope for her tiny bundle of joy,



But her joyfulness will wane and never wax again as the baby grows,



Or does not grow at all



She will see his body change and his limbs grow longer, his face broader, but his mind still remain a baby,



She will spend fruitless years of her fading youth,



Begging at the door of one doctor after another,



As slowly but surely, her darling baby will grow into a destructive demon,



His tiny fists flailing in the air, making her chuckle with pure delight,



Years down the road will make her heart throb with fear and anguish,



As the tiny fists are replaced by strong machinations of havoc,



That no longer curl around her index finger, but force themselves through glass tables,



And the glowing girl of twenty-three will disappear,



Her youth will bleed into the daily care of her son,



Her zest for life will be sucked out of her, one tantrum and broken object at a time,



She will fall to her knees on the threadbare carpet night after night,



Cursing the unfairness of the world, questioning the existence of the one called God,



Her own scratched hands pummelling her chest, tears and howls issuing from deep within,



Intermingling with that of the never-ending wails of her son's,



Who will grow to be a teenager, who does not even know how to dress himself, or bathe himself, or even feed himself,



Does not know the meanings of pain or love,



Does not see the hordes of people on the streets shying away from him as though he were the harbinger of death itself,



But she will



And she will try to put on a mask of indifference, try to cloak herself with dignity,



But her cloak will be torn to shreds by her son and the barking noises issuing out of his gaping hole of a mouth,



Years down the road, as they lay him in his grave at the age of eighteen,



She will note that only in death is her son silent and peaceful,



And she will stare at his coffin and the scars he made unwittingly on her body,



Every tantrum and outburst fresh in her weary mind,



The few relatives gathered will not understand the tears falling fast and furious down the hollows of her wasted cheeks,



They think that she should be relieved, perhaps even happy,



Certainly not devastated that a burden has been lifted,



And as usual, the crowds do not understand,



They never did and she never expects they will



She gives birth at the age of twenty-three, overflowing with happiness, brimming with hope for her tiny bundle of joy