Holiday Chores

Sunday- the day when you can be

Yourself- and not let be ruled –

A day to do what you wish to do

And not what others want you to do.

Sunday – the day one could read

Even the most insignificant ad

A day you need brush your teeth

Only when you want to eat.

I have a little duster, of soft

Synthetic bristles – to dust

The books, tables or the shelves

And an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.

There’s something about cleaning,

Dusting, tidying up and swiping.

A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain,

A crack that weren’t there before.

Today, I took on the showcase shelves

Souvenirs, scattered, of a life gone by.

A fan from China that my uncle brought

A medal my father earned for service with merit.

Glass flower vases, my mom’s valued prizes

Headless dolls my sister and I played with.

A bowl my granny used to fill with fruit,

Statuettes of dogs and such other stuff.

I clean them, dust them and keep them back,

Wondering what value they have.

What would they mean to my wife or son,

These worthless pieces, when I am gone.

In the stillness of days and nights

When I am gone, the winds would blow.

Specks of dust would settle and stain

White dustsheets would shroud my life.

Forlorn, forgotten, fritted away

My life, like a photo fading away

Where colours give way to meaningless grey.

Then one day-

Torn or crushed and swept away.

**************** Kottayam 27-12-2004

(Unpublished poem, now unearthed)