This afternoon, the kitchen wears a snore. A calm one, away from worries which seem perpetual looking at the loving faces of a yesterday in the mirror peeping in from the facing room or tomorrow sitting like a cat near the balcony aiming at perhaps the next bird coming to perch.
A storm brews up in the morning before daylight. There's the clang of utensils and at times, bang of plates when time gets on the nerves. But on days like this, there's no hurry and what's cooked up comes to the home of our souls like an acquaintance coming tired from a journey getting candy flosses or better still, candies which would stay on for us from the bus stand. Greeting the lazy clock tower on the way. A feline purr greets him and elated faces jump around trying to get the better of him. After all, known guests don't come to leave footprints behind for atleast another year, every day.
Sweaters rub as familiar voices ask, 'Momma, it's freezing, why don't you don gloves?' The answer is sweeter, sparrows chirp near the windows, ' Who'll cook up the feast before the day leaves tomatoes sunkissed? ' Sometimes, it was the coconut cookies learnt long ago but forgotten only to be reminded of by a food-curious child. Sometimes it was a known dish given a a twist to match that popular Christmas recipe.
But some lies always remained which couldn't be washed down the sink. It wasn't just that she forgot to bake the cake she promised and instead baked cookies, not that she forgot to bake them star shaped. The lumps in her throat were the lies she told her children~ they're away just for a year, they'll soon be back with us to celebrate next time. They, who'd left in the course of the years past, who celebrated with them and shaped in their minds, what Christmas was.
Slowly, truth opened its arms and took its place on the dinner table. The Christmas feast was always fulfilling though and it felt warm for her children to count with her stars in the sky biting into the piece of a pie of remembrance. She didn't forget to tell them though~ they all were made of stardust. Those who had been and those who are still there. Carefully kept inside the sweaters they wore, inside another Christmas.
I tried abstract this time. I know it's weird and complicated but I hope it'll give you hope. I know it's not easy to smile these days but maybe pretence will become real someday. So smile my dears, for me, for your loved ones, for your worthy self.
@writersnetwork you guys are love. Thank you for always supporting me. Muuaah
@miraquill you guys made my day. You guys made me smile. Thank you so much for POD. I'm grateful. Love ya fam
And thank you'll for always supporting me and giving me reason to smile. Thank you for all the likes, reposts and wishes.
I have forgotten how to write a poem. How does it begin and end when you are only familiar with the broken part of a story. Find me a word, one that fits so well between the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall. Maybe that's how you start, from the middle, the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments that fell in tune with the wind when you gently opened the windows to welcome the cold. Every other winter before becomes irrelevant; mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin. How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance; and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground, the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay. You sit beside the open window, gazing at the setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep inside your skin. Perhaps that's how it ends, when things that were never meant to stay become a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.
This place is like a dream to me where my reality doesn't know about that I exist here too. So thankful to those stygian nights who help me to reside within them and shelter my metaphors in a dreamy wardrobe which is made up of love and care. My silhouette is more blessed to find its home finally within the landscape of many heavenward syllables. Since three years, my dream has been breathing here with the melodies of an unseen lyre.
And, inside my cobbled dream, I'm just a mere orchid which blooms in a pallette of colours unknowingly and learning to bloom from other charming orchids and I shall continue to learn how to bloom and rise perfectly. One day, I will wither for sure but before the autumn's fall, I want to enjoy every side of this beautiful cruise.
This orchid is thankful for all the love you water and I will conceal the chalice of your kindness inside my closet to look that how I was loved and lived.
Completing three years here :-*
If I'll tag each and everyone whom I know and from whom I inspire, then it may take me a year to mention each and everyone. Kindly understand the situation xd. And really I'm thankful.