This Day

This Day

Snow falls soundless.

I listened.

I cook onions in turmeric,

add garlic.

Why my thoughts tangle with you

I cannot say.

You were the gentlest of your family.

An artistic soul floundering among steadfast rationalists.

I pour coconut milk over chickpeas.

The color blends mustardly golden, the scent of curry rises.

Your Indian father would not acknowledge you.

I know he didn’t want to be responsible.

I stir the chickpeas, the onions.

The aroma fills the air.

Simmer, the recipe says.

Some days you are not far from thought.

Today, I wish you’d chosen other.

I wish you’d seen a grander picture.

How short life is without cutting it yourself.

I liked the picture of us. Two old biddies

sitting on rocking chairs, commenting on life.

Now it’s only me. And the picture isn’t as sweet.

 

Sascha Darlington

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Categories: poems

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3 replies »

  1. Such a sad one Sascha. But I can imagine the scent of Indian food & the picture at the end that won’t be. Sorry for your loss if this is for real. If not it felt very personal and brings the reader closer. Well done either way.

    Liked by 1 person

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