Yesterday night we had heard another act of disappearing. As the television news hour went on as a battle of bright wits , the disappearing sound played softly in the wind.
He had appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. And now what a fine disappearing act he would perform ,while still in heavy-lidded sleep!
The hills slipped down endless slopes.The metallic cliffs were copper red.A craggy protuberance was bird against the translucence of a May sky.Miracles were rife in the rarefied air because the smiling God up there would turn every reason to belief.
Once on the mountain the sampangi (magnolia champaka) fragrance burst on our mystic air.We felt content not to have views to beauty that defied viewpoints.
While lighting my bulb, electricity rules my adult mind as making my father weightless to sky.
When kids we had no electricity, just dimwit kerosene lamps hanging on the door frame.When it rained there were halos of moths. The halos moved on the wall in shadows.
Then we had shadows gently touching wall lizards . Electricity finally came and removed shadows except lizards.
The electric thoughts still play on my grownup head,especially the then grownup tongues clucking sadness at the child’s loss of father.
Seventeen and clerk ,on work to support a sister who had embraced her electricity he is the one whose elbow gently nudges, now to a park bench for old men’s sitting,a nephew lightly less old, former kid at his elbow. Now eighty and two uncle stares at night as the nephew stares lightly at his own night.
(Take care from falling and nightly bumps like your sister had before she hit the ice)
Sister was mother to this slightly old man and awaiting his ice to hit , nice and cold, nephew and breathing, in a jab at poems.Poetry breathes before nephew turns ice, like all things breath before they turn ice.
With a cold in the head ,the last two days were body -centric, at night and on the day . On the day it was a head full of empty echoes. Like an abandoned factory shed.
In the night sleep hovered over the eyes not descending. The eyes dreamed their sleep and when sleep would come it had frightful dreams straight out of the belly.
There were no walks. But there were poems under the night. A winter poem. A poem about mom’s dementia. At midnight she would grope in the dark and bang her head against the wall.
These days a woman among relatives who had a stroke watching television smiles all day. She has no tooth-edged mutterings. She smiles as if she has understood everything.