Private room number 1.
The heart monitor drawing and re-drawing the valleys of the heartbeat.
Every beep resonates inside my blood.
Making it cold. Colder.
The smell of disinfectant. The bird outside the window is quiet now.
Papa is weak.
His moans are tangled with Ma's knitting needles. Red, green, orange, yellow.
The colored stripes are getting broader. The evening is getting darker.
Mom is knitting a throw.
Her touch is weaving itself in every loop of wool.
She's weaving a throw of strength.
It is wrapping my heart in its folds.
Making it warm. Warmer.
It is the night before Diwali.
The heart monitor drawing and re-drawing the valleys of the heartbeat.
Every beep resonates inside my blood.
Making it cold. Colder.
The smell of disinfectant. The bird outside the window is quiet now.
Papa is weak.
His moans are tangled with Ma's knitting needles. Red, green, orange, yellow.
The colored stripes are getting broader. The evening is getting darker.
Mom is knitting a throw.
Her touch is weaving itself in every loop of wool.
She's weaving a throw of strength.
It is wrapping my heart in its folds.
Making it warm. Warmer.
It is the night before Diwali.
"..Her touch is weaving itself in every loop of wool. She's weaving a throw of strength.
ReplyDeleteIt is wrapping my heart in its folds.
Making it warm. Warmer."
aise leekhte hain.. kam log.
:-) Aisa likhte hain kayi log.
ReplyDelete