April 16, 2010

My father used to break tiny white motia flowers every morning and bring them inside for my mother. She placed them in a water-filled bowl on the dining table, and they greeted me every morning with their cheerful fragrance. The little motia flower, when fresh off its bush, is something I quintessentially associate with my parents. And with romance.

Last night, I dreamt of my father again. I don’t remember most of it. He spoke to me (it’s been so long since we had a conversation) but what was said is a frustrating blur of hazy memory. It didn’t help that I was woken abruptly by the maid calling to tell me she was standing outside my door. I tried to go back to sleep, but the dream – once interrupted – never returned. But that’s what most things in life are all about, I find. Once they go, they never return.

This morning, when I got to work, out-of-the-blue the gardener walked in with a handful of motia flowers, and put them on my desk with a smile. And as I closed my eyes and breathed in their familiar fragrance I could almost feel my heart breaking (a little more) on the inside.

5 comments:

Huma said...

virtual hug. xoxo.

Roshni said...

dudeee..he misses you too...
ps: motia are the best.

littlemissjuicy said...

It's beautiful when certain things in life take you a bit closer to the people we love and have lost.
P.S: I love motia!

Anonymous said...

It's the perfect flower for nostalgia, isn't it? Delicate, fragrant, lilting...

Anonymous said...

your post makes me think he is trying to tell you that even though he cannot physically be there to bring you motias, he is watching over you and bringing you motias another way :)