On His Lost Mother
Lately, I got to know that one friend of mine, whom I got I know since I was in class seven, lost his beloved mother-his one and only the parent he grew up with. As I know, he lost his father, back to the time he doesn’t remember, maybe he was just toddling. Living as a son to only one parent, that’s also a mother who used to often get sick, would have been hard for him, unthinkably I wonder, how hard it would have been to his mother. However, they were a small family I saw with my eyes. As I look back into the days we spent together in the middle secondary school, that’s for almost four years, I see, we had a memorable childhood. I was most of the time, sort of indoor all the time, so I never had much time with friends. At school, we were in different sections after class eight. All I could meet him was during intervals and on the way to and fro school. Those bits of memories I’ve with him and other terrible friends are vibrant. We had those beautiful memories of laughter; of cours