My strength of yesteryears
fails me, as I faintly force my
fragile fingers to push my wheels
beyond the glass window,
to a moonless sky.
Far away,
the stars shine like street lamps of the sky
on the pathway to your new home.
(not so far away anymore)

“Where is your bag?” you had asked me, bewildered.
“I left it by a lorry near the taxi stand”, I had shrugged.
“It was too heavy. I didn’t feel like carrying it anymore.”
“You little -” I never heard the last part, you had started
running back
to find my bag
and bring it back to me.
I was six then; you were more, always more.

My trembling breaths fog up the glass,
and I wait for you
to draw a loony face and double up laughing;
and then I wait for me
to join you in your laughter
(even when i never realized what was so funny)
But the fog vanishes,
leaving no traces of the loony faces
or the meaningless laughter we shared
(or did we?)

I am two over eighty now (but I look more)
even existing is heavy now (it’s a damned chore.)

I left my innocence with our mother’s funeral,
my chastity, with a rogue; and my vision, with the war.
With my children, I left my youth,
and with old age, I left my faith in God.

So heavy. Too heavy this bag is! I’m not bringing it to school tomorrow!

I rot beneath a Banyan now,
that is cursed with an unending life.
(and I wait.
and I wait for you.)
Bring back all that I loved,
bring it all back to me.


[Featured Picture Courtesy: Pinterest]


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