With my head lazily propped against the seat,
With the mellow music guiding my heart beat,
All I could think of was my mother’s smiling face as she greeted me at the front door,
All dressed up, with her soft brown hair tied up in a bun, at four.
I rush into her arms, feeling the warmth and her grip tight,
Forgetting to thank the universe for being so kind? Oh! I just might!
Bags strewn, familiarity settling in quickly now,
I find myself staring at a picture of the man with the quizzical brow.
Amused at how strange a kid’s imagination could be,
I walk further in, for, the man of the house I had to see.
Rocking slowly in his chair, lost in thought,
Was the man with whom I had many a times fought.
Sensitive at heart, yet refusing to show emotion,
We shared a tender moment; I’d missed him, but that, I didn’t mention.
I shook my head, with a tiny smile curling my lips, as I walked out of his room,
We might disagree but we’re just the same, everything unsaid and yet we both knew.
Mum broke my chain of thoughts with her usual gabble,
Trying to get me back to the routine; now that shouldn’t be too much trouble
The coffee stained couch, the dusty book shelf.
Intact, with a photo of my 3-year old self!
Nostalgia hit me like waves on the rocks on a stormy night,
With the sunlight, through the window, streaming in bright.
I realised I was still half way to the place I was born.
Still warming the seat, well worn,
My backyard with the giant tree in the middle,
How quickly it grew that big from the tiny sapling I planted, will forever remain a riddle.
Any town, any city or country I could roam,
But in the end I’ll always long to go back home.
– Sukriti T