It’s time to shift, yet again–to a new house, new city. I sort and pack clothes, books, and wrap the chinaware painstakingly, again and again, just the way I do everytime we shift. My mind knows the drill–like the sequenced dots and dashes of a morse code. And once I’m done with everything, I carefully take the wooden box from the top shelf of my cupboard. My muted lips sing my (𝘩𝘪𝘴) favorite song. Slowly I open the box. It has a wilted rose–𝘩𝘪𝘴 first gift to me. A folded handkerchief with his initials embroidered by me. I still smell his cologne as I hold it close. And finally with tear laden eyes, Iike a trembling chinar leaf I quiver to open a tarnished letter –the last letter he wrote to me before we parted ways. I hold it close for a few moments swirling to the past as memories play in fast forward mode.

After a while I wipe the trickling tears with my pallu and safely pack the wooden box too–to be safely stacked in a new house, inside a new cupboard.

𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨–
‘𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙜𝙜𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙮𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙙
𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙨 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜

 

***

Poetry Style : Haibun

Pucture Credit : Bing