The other day,
my mother called me beautiful,
which she never really does, and
she was stunning in her twenties, and
her mother was even more stunning than her.
I joke that it gets diluted with every generation.
“Woaaah. You look…really elegant. Really chic.
You’re really…beautiful, ” she said.
I remembered that
I was wearing clothes she would have criticized two years ago
as too much and too little all at once.
Clothes, she would have ridiculed, too close for comfort,
close to my face,
up close and pretty, because she is,
personal: close up that blouse, my god,
log kya kahenge?
“You know, mom, a year or two ago, you’d have – ”
“What. I’d have what?”
“Never mind; thanks,” and I smiled.
I call this progress.