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by Gowri Bhargav

It’s time to shift, yet againโ€“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 drillโ€“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 (๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ด) favorite song. Slowly I open the box. It has a wilted roseโ€“๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ด 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 โ€“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 tooโ€“to be safely stacked in a new house, inside a new cupboard.

๐™ง๐™š๐™™๐™ค๐™ก๐™š๐™ฃ๐™ฉ ๐™›๐™ก๐™–๐™จ๐™๐™—๐™–๐™˜๐™ ๐™จโ€“
‘๐™ข๐™ž๐™™๐™จ๐™ฉ ๐™—๐™–๐™œ๐™œ๐™–๐™œ๐™š๐™จ ๐™ข๐™ฎ๐™ง๐™ž๐™–๐™™
๐™๐™–๐™ก๐™› ๐™—๐™ง๐™ค๐™ ๐™š๐™ฃ ๐™™๐™ง๐™š๐™–๐™ข๐™จ ๐™จ๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ



Poetry Style : Haibun

Pucture Credit : Bing

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