by Muneeza Sheikh
Do you remember when,
Mother baked small cakes
Placed on delicate china plates
Beaded on the edges with pearl,
And on the wall dimly lit hangings that displayed father's rich curls?
Seeking refuge in the velvety Turkish rug that matted below,
Rich and velvety apple wood burned in the room.
Not thick and musky that hung in the air, no, not this fume.
But light enough to caress the slight curve on your arm when you were lost whilst foxtrot,
As if his silky tie begged to undo the knot.
If only he had taken the teddy bear,
Ripped and dirty it may be, fair.
It would have completed the scene
He would have looked more like us, sans canteen.
But now, the mud-filled puddles we danced in
Became his new home.
And he couldn’t help but think
That the first raindrops before a wild storm
Were only his own.