He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me....
No. I am no teen sitting under a tree with a daisy or a dandelion.

I am going gray near my ears.
Hardly the age to have my head in the clouds.

Then why am I saying this?
He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me....

Whose affection am I questioning?
Whose love am I longing for?

The dashing young man.

Who orders me around.
Piles his clothes up until he can't get to his bed
And then throws them at me to be laundered.

The chap who strides out jauntily
Answering quite truthfully to my query
"Where are you off to?"
"Out".

The man who wants to shave everyday when there is no earthly need to.
Who makes me sit with him to watch music videos.
Drink cups of coffee and sit bleary eyed beside him.
While he tackles yards of numbers and equations that have long ceased to look familiar.

The man who sulks because I bought the model 4410 instead of the 4410 A.
(The difference? I wish I knew!)

The chap who asks for a brown shirt when he means the gray.
And argues long and hard about it.

The young man who thinks I am an old woman.
(Woe me!)
I knead the dough and wonder why.
I am never sure what this guy wants.
He forgets my birthday. He makes me sad.
Everyday he makes me mad that he is mine.

I still wonder on.

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me....

Does he? Of course he does.
My teen son.
My terror.
My love.

SUMA SIVAGAMINATHAN

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