“Easyyyy,” I keep telling her, my heart skipping a beat each time I utter that word.

I was never overly protective of anyone but my mother. I like to think I’m not, still. However, it gives me that stabby, uneasy feeling when I see her doing something reckless—an act she knows can harm her. I watch her, trying to hold my impatience, not to come off as strict or stern.

Like that time someone screamed “khoon!” while she was cutting a pomegranate. It jolted me, that disquieted feeling I feel only when I see that my Mom is in trouble. I think those are related because I think I can protect them both, by myself.

She’s careless sometimes, becomes liquid whenever she wants to. I love it. But then I worry too. What if I’m not there to pick her up sometimes? What if I’m not there to make sure she’s eating well? Her silly ass would think a piece of cucumber is her lunch, and actually believe it.

I wish she were here so that I can make her eat the pomegranates I peel for her (proving the theory right). Some part of my ever-thinking brain stops and finds peace when I know she has eaten enough. That same peace sprinkles throughout her day when I approach her like a puppy, saying ‘two sips,’ and she drinks the water.

I hate her with all my heart when she lies about how much food she has eaten or whether she has had enough. I hate her when she forgets where her medicines are. I hate her when she hesitates a bit sometimes, talking about her body.

I want to love her, and I want her to be healthy. The fact that my corrupt brain has the ability to hold a thought like that even surprises me.
Because who will take care of the Sherpa and brown cows when they need her? Who will take care of the nasty cats and obedient dogs ? Who will tend to the horse and make sure he’s doing fine when my lil Barista is sick? Of course, I will. But how about we do it together?

My little Pomo, I wish you the best of health, and I’ll hate you if you’re not careful with it. I’ll handle all your tantrums, but I’ll be strict when you’re too reckless. Deal with it.

I’ll prove the theory right throughout your life—so that you know I care about you, I love you, I want you well.

Which theory, you ask?

The theory about—Pomegranates.