Mozart and my Mother in Vienna


The oldest memory I have
Goes back to when I was three years old.
I remember waiting for my mother
To land at the airport, coming back
From Vienna. Now 40 years afterwards,
I look at fondly, how the human mind,
Records even the paltry ways,
That the heart misses someone,
To the extent of pining, like a brown grass blade
Searches for water. The heart
It knows her droughts, it knows
The breast that made her full,
And held you when you first walked,
Two steps away from her reach.
And that day, is still as fresh as
The morning dew or the mist that forewarns you
That it is coming close to Christmas.
Now I know that Mozart lived
Where my mother was, and her absence
Was as blue as the Danube
And the evening sun at the airport
Dipped just as the moon emerged,
As I gazed at both faces all at once,
My parents together, after 3 weeks.
She brought me Viennese chocolates, which
Were as tasty as Mozart’s music
Is to any ear. I would later know,
Who Mozart was, and how he
Died at 35. That’s was near my mother’s age
When she went to Austria.
Now I hang that memory on my
Eternal wall, knowing it will never
Subside to time, like Mozart is
To millions. A legacy so close
To the heart, it lives in that film of cells
Called the endocardium, which
Holds the blood inside. My father, mother
And me, a tripartite perfection. One
Year later my sister was born and
I could see my mother breast feed
Her like a shewolf. We were more closer
To Mozart now, we were just
Like him, a wolf gang.

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