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,

sometimes together.

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!)