nanaji

Winters at Home,

are not teeth chattering cold.

Just a chill in the air,

and the cool breeze’s caress.

The sun shines, every afternoon.

The leaves ruffle,

and the winds sing acapella.

The warmth on the terrace,

embraces his frame, welcoming him,

yet again.

He sits, on a borrowed, broken chair.

Eyes closed, and senses resting,

breathes in the comfort of the heat.

He shares his invaluable words,

stories of mischief, love and the world.

His thundering laugh echoes,

as he narrates,

small instances of his life,

and smiles as he reaches the end.

He reads the newspaper,

in hope of something new.

And sighs at the front page headlines,

that forever express reality’s misery.

Without another look, he skips onto

the editorial where, he

asks us to read along.

After an hour savoured, he stands.

His face contorting in pain, as his knees

crave for attention.

After a minute or two, strong again,

crumpled newspapers, orange peels, and

an indestructible tiny Samsung,

accompanies him downstairs, back home.

His mind already waiting and eager,

for the next afternoon to begin,

and to share a piece of his mind,

with his grandchildren.

 

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