Metanoia.

In the time-worn canvas, 

A child’s doll

Rests 

With a crack in the face

Spiralling down, 

Aching muscles strewn aside, 

Disregarded.

The mind 

Becomes an archive 

Of old cassettes 

That used to play fancy lullabies 

But now smell of 

Spilled liquor 

And guarded smiles.

The most evidential part 

Of growing up is 

Realising 

You cannot always keep 

The ones you love.

Keepsake.

Picture by Vargab Dasgupta.

I open my eyes to the scattered sunrays digging through my cornea, as my gaze falls over the frames hung obliquely on the wall in a row.

The red ambience around seldom gets brighter. But today, an iridescent orange-blue sheen flickers through.

Asymmetric long-boned face. An aquiline nose. Careless brown spots near to the pointed chin. Gentle lips stretched into an imperfect smile. 

The same widely spaced eyes.

The same steady gaze mirroring mine.

Four years have passed and I can still hear the thumping beats of the deepest mysteries within these rectangles. I feel gravitated by the weight of a mountain within my chest, forcing me to inhale even harder. The irregular throbbing and whooshing of my veins is coupled with the mellifluous voice of the robin.

Very soon, a letter drifts across the Pacific:

I couldn’t have sold our Home. What if you come back to the old address and not find me waiting to be rescued?