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The way a cracker fires up to the sky, and then blooms into scattered pieces of joy;
Like sprinkling water, is exactly how my father’s hand moves in hopelessness.
He raises his hands upwards, a little higher slowly,
and then throws his fingers from its closed bud, to the air opening up,
“Ohh…Onnulla” (Oh! Nothing) ,...
Every evening I find the shavings of your eye brow pencil
near the dressing mirror,
along with some talcum on the floor;
Like tiny pleated skirts of dancers on white snow, they stay.
The sharpenings of your pencil, for darkening your eyebrows.
Shreds of oiled skins from frequent touching shed down,
for some newer beginnings with sharper goals.
Each evening before you, your pencil is ready
with the blunt past chiseled and the rawness of the moment ready,
like mother, every day before you with a cup of coffee,
brimming with hope, I believe.
And your willingness to change papa, I see,
you shove the pencil into the darkest spot of the shelf,
after shading those lines to thick eyebrows – a perfect illusion.
