MY MOTHER’S HOUSE
Last night I visited my mother’s house again.
in spirit, alone…
Through the empty doorway
the deserted rooms
now silenced and stilled…
Faces smile down
from dust laden pictures on the wall:
images caught by a camera,
images that outlive people.
An old chair-
my mother's favourite
stands by itself,
rocking at a touch,
in memory of old times?
How often she would sit there
at her favourite spot
knitting a yarn,
telling stories to her grandchildren!
White drapes cover the chair now...
Faint snatches of conversation,
waft through the years gone by
as if it was just yesterday...
Spiders and termites soon began to thrive
where my family had once dwelt.
One by one they left
each on their path ways...
And she, struggling with odds, passed away one stricken morning.
The earth beneath her, bearing her hearse,
stood mute witness
to the rose petals that shrouded her,
to the abysses of sorrow
and mourning that followed,
and then... the silence.
Years of neglect:
cobwebs and termites,
And then, in an impersonal, practical world...
the inevitable sale of the house,
along with the vintage furniture...
In no time the house was razed to the ground
and in its place there appeared a posh bungalow.
Unfamiliar faces, strange people
overtook her domain
exercising authority over what was once hers-
bought over by a well negotiated bargain.
Blotted over by the force of currency...
Locked out of memory and forgotten,
the house now completely ceases to exist...
But... to my formless spirit
searching desperately the debris of the past ...
across the years-
the sweet whisper of my mother's call,
The air rings
with our nostalgia,
The earth still bears on her bosom
the imprint of her tread.