Shorter tomorrow

A clock with wings kept in a box. Photo by George Piskov

Image by George Piskov on Pexels; written by Meghna Majumdar

I grieve what never happened,

I yearn for time that’s lost,

I feel short-changed, so much that

Tomorrow pays the cost

Today, life is living, but

It leaps, it doesn’t soar

I wanted this three years ago,

Now must be this, plus more

So much more

The future will always be

Three years less than due

I could build all I wanted

It’ll last, short by few

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The women I know

Image by EYÜP BELEN on Pexels; written by Meghna Majumdar

Image by derich on Freepik ; written by Meghna Majumdar Scratched. Stained. Crooked. If you put too much weight on it, it groans. If you stuff some newspaper under one leg, though, at least it stops rocking. It’s everyone’s favourite table. She sprinkles the day's first drops of gangajal on it. Three generations of feasts, fights and family meetings have earned it that right. She sits there, right after daybreak, remembering everyone who’s sat there before. She asks for all their blessings, remembers all their love. Her favourite table. They set the baby down on it sometimes, to crawl about, safely surrounded by adoring faces. One day, she crawled right up to her cooing mother, grabbed her nose and squealed, “Ma!” Her favourite table. He sits by it in the dead of most nights, away from the chatter and the questions. He moves the newspaper away, so it rocks quite nicely. He lays his head on it and lets it sway him, to and fro, to and fro. No nags about his meals, no scrutiny of car...

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