A Single Rose

Her footsteps echoed as she walked along the empty corridors. She peered into the stained glass window, and in the faint glow of a night lamp, she discerned the altar, almost unchanged, just the way she had remembered it. The entire place was deserted, fallen leaves lay thick on the stairs as she stepped out into the dark night. Hannah pulled her jacket closer, hugging herself as the cold bit her. She walked towards the grotto, where a few candles still burnt, probably left by a passerby stopping by after a late shift of work. The moon barely a sliver peered down through the grey clouds, her footsteps were sure as she made her way across the cobblestone paved churchyard, darkened by looming shadows.

A perfunctory prayer hovered over her lips silently as she stood in front of Our Lady, not failing to be struck by the depth in that beautiful face that had her captivated from childhood. But, this was not why she had come here today. Her heart beat quickened as she made her way towards the cemetery. Every sound, the twigs cracking under her shoes, chirping of nightly insects, and the faraway howling of a dog, magnified by the silence of the night, made her nervous. Finally she stood in front of a grave, with a simple headstone. She laid down a single rose on the cold marble. Biting her lip, she held back her tears.

Suddenly the cry of a baby pierced everything else. Hannah woke up with a start, morning sun was filtering gently through the curtains, and her husband was still peacefully asleep, oblivious to John’s cries. As she took the little bundle to her bosom, she tried to shake away her dream, one which recurred every now and then. Losing Tommy had been the hardest thing she had had to overcome in her 28 years. Even after 5 years, a loving husband, and the baby, some stubborn memories refused to fade. As John slipped back into sleep, she gathered her hair into a quick knot and woke up to go about her morning chores like any other day.

The Blue Couch

The blue couch had been part of the living room furniture for as long as I cared to remember. The couch was in no way extraordinary. But it was as comfortable as any. It was blue and soft and gently bouncy. We could leap back onto it and like a trusted old friend it would bear our weights, its old springs complaining maybe just a little. My brother and I have enjoyed many a hearty tiffs for the remote on its spaciously inviting lap-the generous upholstery always cushioning our blows and falls.

To us this couch was as important a part of our childhood as our favourite toys still treasured in some dark corner in our rooms. Many a times the couch had been moved around the room to suit my mother’s fancy during her numerous ‘redecorate the house’ frenzies. But little did i know that it would soon be moved out of the house in a fresh attack of my mother’s old malady.

On one of my weekend visit home from college, our living room had been transformed. The friendly old couch had replaced by this elegant wooden structure. Well it was indeed beautiful to behold alright- its wooden back with cane-work and its polished wooden seat had been adorned with two pretty cushions precariously balanced on their pointed sides. But it didn’t seem like my home anymore. For starters the TV was switched off and my brother was not found to be sprawling lazily on the couch flipping channels. Later I rather painfully realized that it was no longer possible to jump back on to this thing and land comfortably. And my brother and I no longer fought for the TV remote, as our first duel on the new seats resulted in bruises on my hand.

But my mother was extremely proud of the new piece of furniture. Visitors too were all praise for my mother’s elegant taste. Well they could afford to do that. They didn’t live here. It was all very convenient for them to compliment my mother and then get up and leave when their backs started to ache from sitting upright in our sophisticated new replacement.

And like all the other changes we grew up with, we accepted this one too. Moving on, leaving behind us the little things that are now merely a part of our memories of the oh-so wonderful childhood.

Memories and Dust

Photos strewn across cluttered tables

An old scrapbook bursting at its seams

Memories bind me, constricting cables

Reminders of another world and old dreams!

Shards of glass scattered on the floor

Tiptoeing, careful, lest a splinter cut me

I know they should lay there no more!

Yet here I am, unable to break free.

Reading once and several times again

I should stop and start writing now

To change the past would be in vain

On a fresh page I have to pen somehow.

Sweep away the broken glass, I must

New whiteness I have to embrace

Clear away the memories and dust

New words my pen shall trace!

Lingering Past

Lost in that endless maze, my memory lane

Trapped I am in that familiar snare.

To leave it behind would inflict pain,

Which I know not if I am ready to bear.

Dwelling upon old memories sweet,

Hours long, I can willingly spend.

The pace of the present, I’m unable to beat

The rigid walls of time, I wish I could bend.

With distrust in my eyes I do view,

(Reluctant to accept, to make it my own)

All present trials and ventures new.

Everything I have, merely from the past, a loan.