Her rusted hair pins like a cappella of baritone hues in the wooden hollow along with other small fallen buttons, a piece of thread, still shines the best out of all .
Those woollen crocheted sweaters won't fit in anymore, still she prefers narrating me a fable under the blanket in winter nights. I have never asked her anyday why she passionately paints her nails in ebony and secretly tries my Fuschia shade on her lips.
She smiles over her folds and caresses them , for she is happy to make separate colonies on her wrinkled skin for "him" may be as grandpa conquered the whole territory of her heart. I don't laugh at her strange malapropism or else I would miss the chance then to draw points how to be better than perfect and in hiding her bruises probably "him" she was a complete Paragon .
She sits with paper balls to save the moths from the lizards on the wall and if it happens to be her favourite pin instead by a mere fault her gaze sets into a long term oblivion . Every time I sleep beside her she never forgets to leave a puddle of saliva on my dimpled cheeks, and then I wonder whom she loves the most.
On every weekend until the ice cream melts in porcelain bowls and until the choco chips get lolled on the brim of hot tea cups she will try different hairstyles out of her grey strands. Her teeth aren't red in tobacco although I find her nurturing poppies than those roses in the pots, she is well choreographed in wrapping betel nuts in two- three leaves and even if her pains slips off her mouth , it will never be "his" name that may create a dull thud.
And unconsciously, she runs, in between the knitted fabrics those pointed needles, to the roads where she refrained a sunflower from blooming at the cynosure, where her lost dalliance may keeps on patting her soft toes. Drops then get closely arranged in her folds, I dare not wipe those out as she might be enjoying her fika in an abditory.
Old memories creep through the walls and all over my legs back then she used to make me forget the red marks of those ants and and wiped my tears over broken dolls . I also get started like her, not to wipe but // : — — - — — — — .//(~)
Some colourful rubber bands and a ring she tries on fitting those round her pinky finger one after another and if I ever throw a "WH" shuttlecock she will pass it into a tacenda as if she tries to rate her as a biggest flâneur .
I often notice upon the wall clock in her room, it shows a perfect timing only two times a day and the rest of the day the hands rest over the same place.Wonder how? The clock hands has been stuck at 7:30 , only at 7:30 in the morn and at 7:30 in the eve an office going chap will not be misguided anyhow.
I won't compel her to say who was "he" but the dandelions and the poppies would blame me someday when only the flowers will smell like her on this earth.