I had traveled long and far before getting home,
and it was a beautiful spring day when I arrived.
The air in the flat smelt of neglect, the dust of
memories covered family pictures, “those where
the days my love,” a phrase from a recent song
murmured on my lips. I half turned by the door,
wanted to run away again, only this time I had
nowhere to go, my journey over.
Agonizing silence a never ending Om, I got to do
something, opened the blinds to the door out to
the terrace and up from a flowerpot of dry soil…
and two small eggs, flew a pigeon. Wonder and
new hope. If a meek bird could find a home here
so could I; of course for now the terrace was out
of bounds. Slowly, ghosts of past misery vanished
as ancient dust danced in a halo of sunlight.
