Some days, we would not be enough,
Some days, wise old you, would be too old,
Too old to be relevant,
She was sitting there, amidst all the chaos,
Probably grandpa would have wanted her to be,
She suggested something, but it was too unreal,
Not such good advice,
We all would be in that place,
Being too important,
Once every footstep each second her kids used to spend with her,
And now she is scared of sharing her opinions,
She is still as strong as she was then,
Listening to her husband, actually more of her kid’s grandpa now,
She spends days listening to all the blabber kids have to make,
And still most of the times, she is left with no one to listen to her,
To her feelings,
But to that, she is used to,
But what must have hurt the most was,
Is this inability to understand, and to offer her view,
And advice on everything we do,
She must have felt like being stuck in that soft cushion,
Too soft to let her move,
Trapping her, and she with her strengthless knees,
Had to stay right there, through it all,
Maybe a kid would come, and give her a hand,
And with a little modification to her advice,
Right there she would stand, still so relevant,
With this newer emulsification of her grand kid’s words and her thoughts,
Right there, through the chaos,
For the satisfaction of grandfather or probably of that of her kid.