By Priyanka Maisnam
Another day at the old cottage
Beside the withered gulmohar,
Rocking the creaky recliner,
I think of you.
The way you drank your coffee
“I always like them black, Hazel,” you said.
How your nose scrunched up and
Eyebrows furrowed when
You read the morning paper.
You glanced at me over the counter,
A companion in our quiet moments.
Maybe it’s the nostalgic calm of April rain,
Or the symphony of a sultry summer sky
I remember those deep brown eyes,
How I fell for them slowly, and all at once,
Like a warm embrace on a December morning.
You held my hand—one for two
An anchor along the midnight shore.
I remember the crinkles
At the corners of your eyes
When my stern visage
Attempted humour.
The sound of your voice
The first time you said my name,
In your faded blue jeans.
And evenings at Lily’s place,
Enthralled by vibrant bougainvillea;
A cup of tea in hand,
Served with a woman’s rant of
Mundane daily chores, or
Isabella’s relentless nitpicking.
You, my constant in rugged terrain,
As life turned its daring pages.
A rhapsody of pouring rain
Beneath the silhouette of a fading skyline.
A wave of serendipity unfurls
As each drop caresses my hands.
Reminiscence of eighty-five summers,
And one solitary desire remains:
Grant me this last dance
Slow, one hand to another.
I close my eyes, and you whisper,
“We’ll always be twenty-two,
Like the day we first met.”