Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday ‘s child is full of grace
Wednesday child is full of woe
Thursday ‘s child has far o go
Friday’s child is loving and giving
Saturday’s child works hard for its living
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.
All I that I wanted was to be perfect straight hair and nosed, like big sis, fair with translucent skin, and red lips bright eyes like kid brother a math whiz like Sreekumar, a wordsmith like big sis, without being challenged by spelling. If I could be a sports person like Chiru, or science genius like Rama, sing like Vasanthi dance like Hemamalini, Cook like Betty Crocker, and paint like the Ajanta artists. This is something only a Sunday’s child can do.
I can never do anything right there is always someone better,not even destruction Osama betters me there.
I am like the garbage can, scarred. There was a time when I wished at every wishing well, that a fairy would emerge giving me the magic potion i would then be blemish free and lovable. I realized somewhere more than loving me, I remind them of what they rather forget or turn a blind eye to that is I wear their scars. The wonderful flawless lives were blemished by my presence, a mutilated presence of ugliness. Somewhere I felt vindicated. My scars less painful.
Like Rose Kennedy says-“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
One freaky Friday, I experience the utopia of the Sunday’s child. Then I am back into the comfort of darkness, where I can put together the mosaic that identifies me. Yes, despite being unwelcome, and unwanted, if you think, I am feeling sorry for myself and licking my wounds, think again. I am like the donkey whose parody G.K.Chesterson eulogized.
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palm before my feet
character created for indiblogger–see more on– Jacob Hills on Amazon.