Maybe there are better subjects in world’s curriculum,
but together we talk about colors of saucers
and matching cups half-full of our hopes.
The air is crisp, and nostalgic to the tune
of a catchy Bollywood number.
This day smells like ginger tea and oily
fritter balls, old scrapbooks and time-travels.
“Back in our time,” she starts explaining
to her little boy. “Back in our time,”
my mind goes numb, “we never thought
of tomorrows and gray color, and
revitalizing creams and laugh wrinkles.”
We share the laughter here. Once again.
Like old time. Like old friends do.
The afternoon hides behind the wall of her
dry garden. We use our time, talking about
people we haven’t met in a while, and people
who left us without uttering an extra word.
We seek tales that we lost to time, and
pictures that could capture some of them.
“Where did a decade go?” she looks for a
clue on every page of her album.
Like clues were that naive to hide there.
I look out of the window: a single maple leaf
is there again on the snowy backyard, winking
at the evening sky, reminding me of yesterday,
and challenging our tomorrow.
Another day is going to fade, yet again
we are not scripting our