WHY IS IT?

Why is it I keep rewinding

memory spool to those days 

that in present context

bears little meaning....

burst of scarlet Easter lilies 

in fenced gardens we'd pick

and present to class teacher

all throughout spring

Or those garlands of jasmine

all summer assailed nostrils

with needle and thread we'd string

and then hang with reverence

on photo frames of loved ones 

we'd never met, just heard 

about them, long since dead

And morning walks through

thicket fields, cows grazing mooing

inviting to share their meal

waiting for the train's whistle

carrying coal, speeding on

the twin tracks, where we'd

place one pice copper coins

with a hole, no more seen

flattened by the carriage wheels

kids with free reigns to do 

as would please...just few of the many

preserved childhood memories!

Why is it I keep these things

pocket watch, Sheffers pen

with broken nip, used first time

writing exams for Senior Cambridge

and the orange muffler threadbare 

still wrap around my neck 

On cold winter nights smelling

of vicks vaporub and naphthalene 

or the card in cursive handwriting

sent on first wedding anniversary

with a poem, every time I read

still tears me up; words chosen

conveying his love and loss of

having a daughter signed off

carrying a surname, not his own

and the Oxford English Dictionary 

with pages discoloured turned brittle

gingerly open, to find meanings

that never was used when 

he was around; walking dictionary 

and I failed him miserably

when he most needed me

dad I'm so sorry, I'll make 

it up when we do meet