A Home without Her

Sniffing for hints of her fragrance,
holding on to the coarse blanket,
on that sobbing monsoon night
I lay alone on the creaking bed,
that dreams no more…

Peeling paint flakes on cobwebbed ceilings
carry a frozen time frame forever.
Life has silently tiptoed ­
out of the door,
leaving behind the dust of memories.
They line up like red ants
one after the other waiting to prick
the soft inner parts of me,
that haven’t rehearsed to harden up yet.

I hear the pink Champa flowers,
awake at dawn, as they fall noiselessly
on the lonely balcony floor.
Hoping to be handpicked,
arranged with love,
I keep them in a vase
to accompany the weeping window.

On cold stone-hearted backyard steps,
as I sip on warm coffee from her old mug,
my childhood home in its past glory
calls me out to play once more.
I go there, with a silent promise…
to be back again
and again...

for the little that's left behind...

:: However hard it may be to confront my childhood home where my mother lives no more, my sister and I will keep visiting the place for everything that is left behind. Our home needs us now, more than ever before! ::