I am not depressed, just coming apart

That was a place of planned rest.

One where I would grow old, and die amongst family and friends.

Or at least amongst pictures I put together in albums that I would go through when I had the time to revisit.

There are scraps of cloth, left over from dresses I made over the years. That I would put together to make patchwork cushion covers. Maybe even a life quilt. The reel of golden yarn that I got from Muscat, which I could only use for a few years to make Rakhis. The rats bit through deeply, but more than that something else did. Something that took away from the  desire to send out meaningful threads and emotional letters annually.

And now there is only the “new places” to travel to.

Of course I shall be able to do that soon. Just as soon as I forget all that I have left behind.

Only fifty years of work.

I know, I know , you told me so.

That we shall all pass on, alone, and carry nothing with us.

But right here, right now………..


About Smita

Born in Bhopal, School- St Josephs Convent, Idgah Hills Bhopal, BE- MACT/MANIT, Bhopal, 1981 MA- Sociology, Barkatullah University Bhopal.
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