Not the swimming pool. Not the drives
or that Maruti van
of vintage spirit that you climbed into.
Not the Bay of Bengal. Not
its indifferent waves.
Not the terrace of how it bemoaned
the loss of those who left
the years, the dates, unimportant.
The hopscotch drawn in chalk
waiting in vain for tiny feet
washed away in rain.
Not the chat groups or the house
pulsing and humid.
Not the family that rejoices,
Not the festivities, not the dark rooms
looming in corners because the best
is yet to come. Not the birthdays,
not the treasure hunt
memories elbowed in Mac and cheese.
No. None of this.
I’ll pretend I’m well mannered and polite.
You can pretend to listen.
Barefoot, I will dance barefoot
leaving footprints that none but us will see
I’ve come with no good sense of discretion,
I need not speak to wish you, in any case
my tongue is tied, the years have fed off my body,
I’m weary of seeking, I only demand.
I demand that you are happy.
P.S. This poem is for a little girl who is not so little any more and very recently got married. For further reference you can read http://asliverofmoonbeam.blogspot.com/2013/06/my-little-girl-is-leaving-home.html (if interested!)