Monday, April 26, 2010
I left my parental home that day
As a young girl of only seventeen years.
The January rain came down, like pin stripes of grey,
My washed- out tracks disappeared behind me
It veiled behind the mango grove roundabout.
When I looked back with the yearning and the grief of native spots
I saw my mother, leaning against the pillars of neighbor’s house
Waving at me, cheerily, apparently.
I knew how she would weep after dinner
After tucking everyone into bed, thinking about my lone room
Inside the bleak hostel walls…
Already writing letters in her head.
Already missing me.
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