nirmalamayurpatil

 

returning

monday afternoon

the first

pauṣa

. . .

“a place where words are born of silence”

rūmī

the day is over

and the moon has come into my sky.

i’m standing in my balcony, meeting him in silence. 

somewhere under this late winter sky birds are returning home.

i’m returning too.

to this place. 

to press moments, like flowers, between sheafs of words.

moments i want to remember.

 

.

in the evening he sits beside me,

lost in something he’s doing.

his hand gently rests on my aching head.

nothing much.

still, i want to remember.

next night, he is listening to my memories 

as if they are becoming his own.

in the afternoon, a book arrives in the post.

inside, the pages are stuck.

so i sit separating them with a bīdrī  knife.

revealing one beautiful illustration after another.

later, i find a tiny handmade card

saanjh has secretly left for me by the bedside.

an early birthday present.

also, a gift of another kind - a trace, of who she is today

for me to remember when the memory of this day has faded in my mind.

i want to remember

all these moments

moments made of nothing much.

no beginning, no ending

still, lingering.

between sheafs of my words here.

.

i want to remember

how the cold wind of these last days

feel on my skin

before the śiśira sun comes to envelope my world.

. . .