Under the folds of fabrics,
Old and wrinkled like the backside of my grandfather’s hand…
(momentarily I wonder if there is a name for that part of anatomy).
Under the stack of clothes, colours, memories, and seasons and smells,
I come across an unused sweater.
Bought on a windy day in a foreign land.
A gift.
A gift I didn’t want at that time.
You bought, nonetheless.
In spite of my spirited protests,
You bought it with the impatience that wisdom sometimes bestows, even on guardian angels.
As we inspected the sweater,
You sold me the wool and the warmth,
While the delighted shopkeeper waited till you sold his wares to yourself.
So much more than money was exchanged in that moment.
I muttered grudgingly till
You spoilt me some more.
Ambushed by souvenirs, I keep organizing my cabinets and cupboards.
I furiously wrap thoughts, memories, tears and some sweaters in camphor smelling corners…
Persuading myself that I now have no need for them.
On days like these, I wonder what it means to move on.
July 2020
Stories of Silverfish 