Ammi and I

We lived in a small room Near the river Ammi and I She said she wasn’t pretty I can’t imagine of anything More graceful than her She would devote hours  peering at the door  writing something  in her dialect I never met my Abba  Ammi said he lived  across the stream  She writes to him everyday  so that he’ll visit us one day She used to tell  what’s broken  gets weaker day by day  All these years I only saw her getting tough. I flew to the capital  for high-school I found you That year it rained  like never before And I was happier Than ever before Whenever it rains it reminds me of you You left too soon It tastes like autumn since Black tea I remember  how you preferred it Whatever you liked  I loved it too  And whatever you  fell out of love with I stopped loving it too  I don’t love myself now Ammi used to say Wild creatures don’t  need to be tamed. Science taught me "A human body is a group of organized tissues." Science has an exposition for everything and all I understand  are metaphors Ammi used to say  you grow into the person you love I turned into the difficult goodbyes  the quiet mornings that follow  the anxiety right after waking up  the cities left behind  the missed buses  the delayed flights I became the unwanted replies  the longed video calls  the songs you tune in to cry  the defeats you hate  the victory you crave  the storm before a shower  the silence after a fight I’m the Monday blues and the Friday night I’m the one you look for  in an empty room And the one  you run away from I’m me; I’m you; I’m us Science has an exposition for everything And all I understand are metaphors. Ammi has aged now In her winter-white hair  She looks beautiful than ever With her shuddering hands She still writes It's been years now He doesn’t seem to come back Neither do you. So I choose to abandon writing Maybe then, you will. Bhumika.