All By Herself

By Manish Singh A

Her farsighted eyes squinting to read mine,

Her mumbles and fumbles while I’m welcomed in,  

Her long-crooked nails turning pale-untidy, 

Her white hair outgrown, frizzy and undernourished, 

Those rhythmic wrinkles on her aged-dripping skin

Narrating the highs and lows of her previous years.

The unbreachable stains on her long dress were glued, 

Tooth by tooth giving up on her, the remaining ones 

Giving her enormous pain and unbearable stings, 

Jaw dropping down, sucked-in lips, skinny cheeks, 

Hunched back, cracked calluses and weakening bones 

Reminded me of merely a generation old Banyan tree.

Her strength-less shaky hands created flickering brushstrokes,

Imprinting wavering and noisy landscapes on the canvas,

Her gallery wall looked fragile, fine and sublime,

The family portrait always welled up her eyes,

Sometimes, she loved her cup of lemon tea, 

And sometimes, she cursed it for being salty. 

She sat out on her rocking chair usually in the mornings, 

To bask in the sun and dry herself after a short bath, 

Her contagious smile alone could light up the neighbourhood,

Yet, the kids passing by her porch had named her a witch, 

And by her appearance and aura, you might want to, too. 

Well, to me, she's just an old grandmother living by herself. 

By Manish Singh A