By Sreeja Mohandas
The murmur of smoking froth settling down
As dark welcoming lips blow on and slurp up the burning bliss.
Slender fingers draped around a ceramic mug, relishing the heat.
Father’s morning tea.
Nine-year-old fingers knead toes with love,
A child awaits with suspended breath,
For that magical moment to emerge from a wonderland.
Open sesame!
A place of make believe tumbles out,
Falls over giggling colours,
Colours that appear brighter, better.
Father’s story time.
A much used ink pen, the tip still shining.
Well thumbed, dog eared detective novels,
Carefully wrapped in newspaper covers.
Diary entries, spidery, impossible to decipher.
Cherry blossom polish containers, flat, shiny.
Images jostle and shove
Inside an empty whitish bottle of old spice aftershave,
Balanced precariously, just behind my eyes,
As I look for that familiar comfort,
Which now remains scattered,
Among wet rocks and broken earthern pots.
Lost somewhere on a grassy terrain.
My Father’s love.