The wind blew her hair
As she stood still in front of
His tombstone in utter despair,
Letting the rough weather beat her skin hard.
She would have walked away
From the harsh winter breath
If it were any other day,
But not today, just not today.
His arms tried to comfort her
But they weren’t enough.
Instead, she craved for the ones of the man
Whose remains lay deep under the ground.
She recollected the times when
Her tiny self lay in the dim light,
Giggling to the stories he said
At half-past eight every night.
She reminisced the stories in which
The men in the village walked upside down
To cross the bridge with the Basilisk
To get to the ogres who planted roses of brown.
Her memories wandered to the times
When she didn’t have enough height
To reach the cookie jar kept high above,
The arms of her father would take flight
To scoop her up from down.
Finally, there was a time when
The cameras didn’t show her tiny silhouette anymore
Because she was as old as the Belle
From his stories now.
As she grew old,
It was not just his stories
She ignored
But also the old man
Of whom she got bored.
Now standing in front of his tombstone,
She let every single tear
Seep down the grass and into his bones,
So that she could give him a part of her
That she ought to have given him
During the last of his years.
Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.
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