Abina Rijal Poet Quatrain

A Long Way from Nepal

It sits there, motionless, buried under unread mail in the drawer,
The once-sharp scissors my dad brought from his childhood home in Nepal,
Its blades now rusty, dull, and sore,
It sits there, motionless, waiting for a final call.

It waits through slammed doors, late-night apologies, and birthdays,
Eager for a chance to get picked up and put to work,
Just like it did in my dad's college days,
It waits patiently, preventing itself from bursting like a firework.

It holds its breath in the dark,
Yearning for a warm and loving hand,
Like the one that packed it and crossed the world to leave its mark,
It holds its breath, hopeful for a future in this new land.

For now, the drawer remains shut,
Where our family's Nepali history leaves its silver trace,
There lie resilient blades that time failed to cut,
Resting quietly in this loud, chaotic place.

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Alison A Smith September 30, 2026 at 6:11 PM A moving, beautifully controlled poem. The quatrains and repeated openings—“It sits there,” “It waits,” “It holds its breath”—give the scissors a patient, almost human presence, while the steady rhyme supports the sense of memory being carefully held. The ordinary drawer becomes a powerful container for family history, migration, and love; “our family’s Nepali history leaves its silver trace” is especially resonant.