I used to be
terribly afraid of my mother -
healthy and boisterous those days,
so much so that
half of my childhood was spent
concealing matters she would dislike.
Now that she is old -
frail and ailing these days,
she is scared of me,
so much so that
a major part of her agedness is spent
revealing only matters I like.
History definitely does repeat itself -
the only part we can't sift however is,
which part to call the farce and which one tragedy.
