Thirty two years.
A daughter, a wife, a mother, but beyond all that… a woman, a self, a person.
A small mirror of my mother’s and the one who looks into a bigger mirror in my daughter’s eyes. I am tough because my mother was a rock. I raise my daughter tough because I won’t let her whine over small things in life.
I’m a loner, a thinker, a sarcastic bitch when pushed too hard. I’m that crab hiding in a hard shell only to keep my soft interior alive.
I live in words. In drops of ink and beyond. I sink in fiction and fantasies, in romance and thrill. I live where mind travels in indefinite possibilities.
I am the woman who nestles. The one who belongs to the home where her heart lives in. The hugs of her daughter and the love of her husband. In the cups of morning coffee and warm rooms. In the familiar dishes of comfort food and aroma of fresh laundry. I am a domestic goddess.
But in the end, at the very core, I’m just a weak creature. My heart belongs to Allah, and to The Almighty everything I do shall return.