Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head

Pick out a piece of your mother's blouse, pants or dress. Try it on. If the size disapproves of yours, wrap the piece of garment on your feet and stamp on it. Walk towards her vanity and observe the objects. Reach for the hand held mirror, hold it a finger away from your face and acknowledge the sad reminder. You know you have beautiful eyes. A bunch of make-up pencils are held snugly by a rubber band. A rainbow of colour pots are nestled in a dainty china plate.

There is nothing you couldn't do to make yourself prettier, although you keep on listening, when mother said your supposed prettiness was abducted; when you slipped out of the womb a minute too soon - a preemie.

Mother always purses her lips pale when she looks at you.

Her best silk scarf - a vivid purplish red with black trimmings - you wrap yourself with it. You consider the aftermath. However, you lack the fear of mother these days.

The unsparing disregard for mother stands apparent when you ripped her satin skirt off the hanger and invented your virgin smirk. In the opaque shoe wardrobe which you loathed, is preened with rows of shoes, proud and elegant. Countless of mother's inklings with her slight tone always urges you to putsch her little religion - Vanity.

You hear mother calling you. You coax your smirk back and thread to the hallway where mother stands with her regular nine bags of vanities, this time round, for you. You decide how lucky you are as a seven-year-old.