I never learnt my mum's favourite colour.
Maybe it's the shade of maroon that adorned her bridal fingers,
Or the green that has weaseled its way into her dogmatic beliefs,
Or the blue that symbolizes her unrequited pursuit of peace.

I never asked my dad if he wishes he could go fifty years back in time,
Spend his childhood, basking in the privilege of being an only child,
But in a less broken home and with more than half a parent,
Orbiting around him like a drone, the way mine did.

We have never been friends - my parents and I.
We've shared the same roof without meeting each other's eyes.
Maybe it's the grief that hovers over our collective opacity,
Maybe it's the shared tumult that has kept us out of each other's reach.

But it'd be disingenuous to be wilfully blind
Because they try, they have always tried
Speaking through half-hearted apologies and overdue actions,
In the only language known to the brown tongue.

I see their efforts in carefully curated spice blends
And the humdrum of the unpaid labour that echoes through my mum's permanent residence -
The kitchen - that has long been powered by my dad's sole bread-winning,
A golden goose that, despite a series of poor choices, keeps on giving.

I sometimes wish that my dad was as good a husband as he's a father
And my mum, a worse wife and a rebellious daughter.
We'd all be better off, I suppose,
Or at the very least, know about each other a lot more.

But the love of my parents is cosmic, well-meaning, infinite,
I just wish I was healed enough to look them in their eyes,
And learn their favorite colour, movie, or cuisine,
And get past the fetters of wishful thinking.

I now live oceans away, far removed from the culture I was destined to abide by,
But my parents' home does not let me forget what sailing through waters feels like.
It's the parental touch of the sun-cloaked breeze that makes you feel at home,
All the while you're trying to escape the uproar of turbulent waters on your tip toes.