by Ranjini Sivaswamy
There’s no other place on earth she spent more time in, my mother
I don’t know how she’ll turn around and walk away, knowing that it’ll be the last time.
My sister, the middle one, will tell stories after stories to her children about our home
She’ll keep the house alive, like it still belonged to us
While the youngest will never ever talk about it
There’s a place in her heart, for tears, that she refuses to share with anyone
Our home will find a place there.
My strongest memory of my father and the house is
Of him standing precariously on the walls,
Watering the concrete, letting not an inch go dry
He stood witness to every stone being put together, every bit that became this house
My father will not sleep, for nights together.
I will not have the heart to come to the city
Knowing I cannot come home
But, my dear house,
What if you’ll yearn to see one of us?
And say, that you wished we came home
That you didn’t know why we couldn’t save you
Why we let us give you away
And walked, while you stood in silence.
I will come,
To see you from the corner of the street.
I will.
Picture from https://www.flickr.com/photos/
