Didu in her yellow shift

On April 30, 2016 by pampi

I knocked
the handsome door of crumbling wood
I knew she was inside and making her way
Pressed my ear against the soft pungent frame
To listen for her approach
And sure enough
I heard the see saw shuffle of a person made ungainly by advanced years
I imagined her powerful fingers
Swollen n bent still quite agile
Putting a book down
Or in slowed motion wiping away the smallest bits of cut vegetables
Either quite possible now
I smelled fried bitter melon and mustard cutting through the musty air
She loves reading
Escaping into books
Her feet tucked up on the arm of the old chair from my childhood
I keep thinking how it’s not good for the body but then remember
My mother recounting
She would climb blossoming pear trees
To escape irate parents and siblings
Curling up with a book amongst branches
Enjoying the sweet fragrance of promise

Now she was close I heard her labored breathing almost felt it’s moisture
Knowing that can’t pass through such doors
Her yellow shift
It’s texture n smell when she passes me
Will be stronger and more fecund than any subsequent memory

Made up in imagination as I walk parks continents away
I look up and can’t tell if those are her bare legs
Or the limbs of the pear blossomed tree
Pages of her book
A delicious eddy
IMG_4908yDancing about me




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