Dust settles,fine and
Brown in the room.
Days pass,till it covers
She stretches one finger
And hesitatingly traces
A line
She sits back and watches
The line disappear in the fresh
Onslaught of dust.

The haunted eyes look up.
Dark and burning-
All she asks is-“Is there no escape?”

One day he and she swept
It all up-lines and dust.
She laughed and pretended for
A while that the dust
Would disappear.

But one day-when
He left-suddenly
The dust knocked on her
With trembling fingers
She let it in.
And let its
Blessed familiarity
Wrap itself around her.


Ps- A poem by my mother, to celebrate this mother’s day.


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