Dear father, she writes, you might
like this place. Like our own, it has
eccentric old men who sit on benches
and shake their heads at all young
people. But unlike the city in
which you live (and I grew up), the
trees are simply not as tall.
Dearest daughter, he pens, you forget
that everything pales in comparison
to memory. The mangoes, they appear
greener when I dream. The red of
the pickle runs thick. Your uncle’s house,
it has grown old – the corner where
you used to play with your brother,
Has turned into a shrine for dust and
old newspaper. Bubbles between the
plaster and the walls. Houses are not
what they used to be. The heirs have
grown and barbers have shops with
no use for the shade of old trees.
Note – Inspired by a quick, heartwarming chat with WA.