Dark or Illuminated Vignettes

~chiaroscuro of memories as wonder~

‘Doorways of Ages’ acrylic on canvas farida haque

The day dusky doves

cooed softly

on a crumbling ledge,

and my father’s breath

soughed away,

I think I died.

I often dream of small hands,

a frock of green polka dots

on blotting paper pink cotton

and an infinite ache.

That’s what I wore that day.

When big guns

boomed at the border

and helter skelter

we ran for shelter

in a hastily-dug

snake of a trench,

my little girl’s heart

fluttered like the wing

of a broken butterfly

stuck on a thorn.

And it seemed as though

there had never been peace

nor would there be.

Then

the slant of the sun changed:

Wood-smoked musk

we called karhak chai*