On A Saturday Noon

As the clock struck twelve on a Saturday noon, I would open the gates in delight, My mother would be waiting and smiling, The heavy bag seemed light, As I tossed it aside and fell in her lap, A sweet kiss on my cheek, I still feel the wet. I looked up the date today, A Saturday it was, The clock struck twelve, As it did all those years back, The gates, they seem harder to open, The bag's heaviness weighs on, I try to find my solace, Forced to stare at my empty hands, My cheeks seemed to get dry, I fear, it will ever get wet again.