The yellowing leaves scattered in the ground
Talk of times which made it's way into past
The dampened leaves give away a pungent smell
A smell of decay, a smell enough to rot memories
Memories! Do we ever burry them?
One scratch in the wind can bring in memories roaring
The more you distance yourself, the more it tears you apart
Just like a sore wound, it inflicts despair.
The greasy soil underneath your heavy boots
Looses hope each time you trample it
But, come autumn, the soil gets a makeover
Leaves: yellow, brown, withering to its bossom
The world looks robbed but the soil leases life.
A poet may love spring, but a decaying heart sings for those scattered pieces of leaves mingling in the soil,
For what is dead can make things alive.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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