Father’s hand me downs
Updated: Oct 8, 2022
By Sayali Pawar
I grew up stealing my father’s clothes
The shirts somehow fit me perfectly
Five years ago and now
I grew up hearing I don’t look like him
His speeches somehow utter through me
Three years ago and now
I grew up fearing his gaze past dinner
The stale bread somehow called both at 3
A year ago and now
We pretended to have just woken
A glass of water and deliberate droopy eyes
He seemed to have watched the same films as I
I remember lying on the cold floor
As close to the room downstairs as possible
With unshaped words and a long night to mull
I grew up wearing my father’s clothes
It snuggles me just like tonight
With a glass of water in hand upon calidity
Again and a first now
I turned when he did on impulse
Our common life sighed when I
Asked, ‘would you like half of the bread baba?’
By Sayali Pawar
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