For Me the Snow Falls

Flurries on my tongue, for an instant before they’re gone

Melting away my worries – erasing messy lines that I’ve drawn

Between tangled thoughts and jumbled memories in my head,

Raining chilled happiness down through the mess instead.

As I tilt my head back and watch the flakes crash into me;

The always-hurt dissolves because I know they’re smiling silently

A thousand cold whispers hushing every voice in my head;

Putting out every burning memory of the words that I read.

I know you can’t see the crystals glistening in my hair;

I can see it in your eyes that you’re not here, you’re there.

But for now, in this moment, it doesn't matter and I am free;

For a million tiny diamonds are grinning at the sunshine with me.

Frost on my lashes, abandon in my feet and icy kisses on my skin;

The world is caught up in a dance, and somehow I've joined in.

The wind swishes her flurried skirt softly and smiles her knowing smile
For she’s blown magic into this moment, this world and this heart of mine.

Snow be beautiful beautiful happiness distilled into flakes;

Spectacularly, soundlessly telling me that everything will be ok.

The Conflict of Being Indian: Where watermelons have no seeds

[Stand forewarned: There be a bit of rambling below. But I think this is important, so skip through parts if you need to, but make it to the end? Please?]

I was Skyping with my maid at home the other day. It feels weird to call her that, somehow. She helps my mom with the washing and cleaning, so I guess that's what she is. But I call her Aunty and I care about her immensely. So I was Skyping with Aunty for a while - asking her about how her daughers were doing, whether it was getting cold over there and explaining to her how she could see my face from half-way across the world.

She asked me if I was eating alright and getting enough sleep and grinned was that I was using the washing machine all by myself. And then she paused. I could see her furrowing her eyebrow at my pixelated face on the screen, as she said worriedly, "Neellu dandiga unnaiya akkada?" (Do you have enough water to use?)

It made me smile and broke my heart, all at the same time. I told her that no town in America has a water shortage and the wonder in her face at that sentence broke my heart all over again.

I am an Indian. I come from a city where millions of people struggle to get by; where lives are seeped in poverty, corruption and exploitation. I come from a land soaked in traditions and customs and often choked by those very beliefs and rituals. That country is my home.

Today though, I have left it for a while. Today, I live in the kind of place where people complain if they happen to chance upon a watermelon with the seeds still inside. For all the watermelons here are genetically modified to have no seeds, presumably to facilitate easy eating. It's such a stark contrast it makes my head hurt. That such a contradiction could be stretched so thinly over two hemispheres makes my mind boggle. What right have I to be here? What right have I to chase a dream, when there's so much I can do for India back home?

Over the past year, before I moved here, I worked full time with a non-profit organization in Bangalore. And at the risk of sounding cliche, it was a life-changing experience. The NGO showed me stories that I shudder to think I might never have heard. I spent more time than ever before on the streets, in underprivileged communities, talking to the doctors, teachers, rickshaw drivers, daily wage workers, nuns, masjid committees and even government officials who make up that world. I wish I could put into words everything that I saw, felt and experienced, but words seem to fail.

I guess I can say that I heard her stories last year, for India is just brimming with stories. Tens of thousands of stories that prick and burn the very core of you, and tens of thousands more that leave you feeling helpless and frustrated. It is easy to see that we are a complicated, complicated country - with a unique, perplexing set of problems.

And so, I suppose it is easy to move away and remove yourself from all of it; keep yourself from dealing with any of it. It must be easy to live in America and visit home, disdainfully, wrinkling up your nose at the smells. I've seen it so often with so many people and so, I suppose it's easy. I suppose that it is easy to go back and look around with incredulity and disgust, like you forgot that you were ever a part of it. People do live in the middle of the chaos and corruption, the dirt and pollution, and live happily. We live happily. I hope I never forget it. I hope I can go back and be alright. Today, I've accepted my messed up country with all it's ten thousand flaws. I hope that wherever I go in life, which ever countries I live in, I'll be able to fly home years later, and accept all of those things again.

And to all of those nose-wrinklers, those incredulous visitors, those disdainful Indians, I say this: I am glad you left. Living in India is not for the faint-hearted. It is not for those who like to avoid issues and close their eyes to things that are difficult and complex and painful. Those kind of people harm India, and could never do her any good.

Living here is for the strong; for those who can take it. Living here is for those who chose to open their eyes to her problems. Living here is for those who can see her messy, beautiful soul and attempt to do what they can to fix her.

I'm not a romantic, I'm not deluded. I'm not saying that every Indian should drop it all and dedicate their lives to their country. I'm not excessively nationalistic, I'd like to think that I am a citizen of the world. I wouldn't call myself a social worker or a tree-hugger. I am a scientist, I love what I do deeply and I'd like to contribute to the world that I live in.

However, in addition to all of these things, I am also Indian. And I believe that being an Indian comes with responsibilities - to care, be be aware, to understand and to be a part of making a change, in any way possible.

Can we throw that wrapper in a trash can, despite the overwhelming pile of trash beside it? Can we remember that the woman who's sweeping the streets lives in a house with no electricity and no water? Can we understand that she will let her husband beat her because she cannot fathom any different? Can we open our eyes and see that the man who never pays tax believes that tax only feeds the fat politicians and that the benefits will never trickle down to him? Can we be aware that the man who takes a bribe from you has to pay off ten people above him?

Are we ready to listen with open minds and hearts to the stories beyond our imagination? Can we accept them for what they are? Being an Indian is not simple. It is a complicated and perpetually tumultuous conflict. And I know with all the certainty in my mind that one doesn't run away from that.

Travel Lessons

1.  If you start the day at 5:30AM watching The Godfather while waiting for your flight, you will end up doing the Don Corleone voice for the rest of the day. Air hostesses will throw you strange looks.     

<sigh> The burdens of travel.

2.  Neon socks are not exactly ideal travel attire, apparently. Guards at security check will stare/glare at your feet. Squinting at the raw fluorescence.

3.  I realized today that the dawn actually does chase the night. Literally. So this morning, as my flight took off, I could see the pre-dawn horizon through the window to my left, and it shocked me. How could I have been alive for twenty three years and not known this about the sunrise? 

What I saw through the pane was a sky entirely blue, except for a strip running along the horizon that was a deep, rich orange. Apparently, someone took a very large brush and dunked it in a tub of orange this morning, before dipping the tip in a pool of pink and running a streak across the sky - all along the horizon. 

That someone does this every morning, exactly the same way. The day starts as a strip of colour and pushes against the night, growing into it till it takes over the sky. I like that. It makes me happy.

Saying Hello to Miss Emily

I got off the tram a stop early while coming home today;

I wanted to dawdle a little in the crisp winter air along my way.

As I crossed on to Borsbergstrasse, a grin spread across my face

As I caught sight of Miss Emily, exactly where she stood every day.

I gazed at her complexion, well-worn with time and still managing a creamy white

As she twinkled at me from behind lace curtains and through soft candle light.

Her garrets curved happily, lit by the largest bay windows around;

Her kitchen smelled of warmth and cookies baked to the perfect golden-brown.

She called out to me softly, that lonely lady of times gone by;

And creaked open her wrought-iron gate invitingly under the evening sky.

Isn’t the cold just hateful, and would I like some cocoa with honey?

Won’t I come in and sit by the fire, tell her something funny?

She has such terrible nightmares, she explains; about things only she remembers.

Memories of horrific years gone by, stories of a war and its dying embers.

“Maybe some other night, Miss Emily”, I reply, with a sorry smile.

“I’ll come by to eat ginger cookies and stay a little while.”

She swishes her curtains and wraps me up in a large rotund hug.

She whispers that I must come back and slowly puts away the cocoa mug.

[I lived on Borsbergstrasse in Dresden for seven months in the year of 2011. The street was lined with the most charismatic mansions I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, all the way from the tram stop at the corner up until my dormitory building. A pre-war mansion, a Victorian looking mansion, a run-down scary one, a stern, austere one - all with their own personalities and stories, or so I like to believe. It made for very, very interesting walks home.]

Alone-liness, you funny little feeling

I miss you when I’m sad, I do;

          The world it seems too empty.

Not nearly enough words to say, 

          And no one to say them to me.

The loneliness when I’m sad, 

          Yes, it does hurt.

But somehow when I’m happy,

           It’s far, far worse.

Belief

She walked across the fields towards the forest, covering the distance in long, powerful strides. The sunlight hit her eyes, reflecting off her sword as she tilted it- first left and then right. Hexicor always said that the best thing about her swordsmanship was in the way she let her grip flow easily from one style to another. She loved the way her fingers would assume a familiar grip, and then slip into another, along the worn out grooves of her sword’s hilt. Those grooves came from years and years of practice in the forest at the crack of dawn, practices on the riverside with Kina and Gioman, sunset practices with Dad and midnight walks with Hex, just holding swords for comfort.

She took her stance and a deep breath and began. Step, turn, cut. Step, cut, cut. She danced in and out, weaving her body through the blades of the Shadows. The Shadows came from deep within The Belief and she was lucky to be able to call them to practice with. The beings of darkness were always one step ahead of her, dancing out of her reach, moving their blades one second quicker and tiring her with every move. She felt herself stumble as two Shadows came at her together. In one split second, she was on the floor of forest, dry leaves crunching beneath her weight, her fluid grip failing her as she struggled to grab hold of her sword. The first Shadow raised his sword in a motion to slice her neck and as the sword hissed through the air, frustration overtook her. “Enough. Enough now. I have learnt and I know what I must correct.” The Shadows instantly melted.

She scrambled to her feet, still frustrated as she looked for her sword among the leaves. As much as she loved Gioman and the sword he had gifted her years ago, she couldn’t help but feel that on this morning, it was the blade’s fault. Her sword usually kept a good connection with The Belief. The Belief, from where all the magic of the Earth arose, held every Knight to his sword and to his purpose ‘til sword and knight were almost one. But today her sword was sluggish, reluctant to follow her command.

“Stop scowling at that beautiful sword, you arrogant knight.”

She looked up to see Hexicor grinning at her and grinned back.

“How long were you watching?”

“Long enough,” he paused “to know that it wasn’t the sword’s fault. You weren't concentrating, most of your Belief was used up in calling the Shadows.”

“I don’t know Hex..." she began softly. "Lately, it seems like that’s the hardest part for me. Convincing myself that I need the Shadows; that I need to practice; that it’s all worthwhile; that when the Evil comes, we need to be different from them." She looked into his deep brown eyes, knowing that he was the one person who wouldn’t judge her this statement of hers. He wouldn’t hate her because she was having crazy thoughts that could change everything in the blink of an eye.

He took a step closer to her, his brow crinkling in worry. “Maybe you should just take a break for a couple of days.” She smiled at his worry, but mostly at the adorable crinkle above the ridge of his nose. 

“That’s not going to help. Last night, I could barely call a fire to boil water. That hardly takes any Belief and I couldn't even manage that. It made Kina so angry. If I start talking about a break, she’d just lose it.”, she finished with a sigh.

He thought for a moment, and then smiled warmly. “You know what, don’t think about it. It’ll be alright. Enough practice now. Come, I’ll walk you home.” 

She liked the way his arm felt around her shoulder, heavy and yet so comfortable. She sneaked a glance into his eyes and for the thousandth time marveled at their perfectly marbled brown. He caught her gaze and smiled. He stopped walking and slowly turned to face her. “By home, I mean I’ll drop you far enough away from your house so that your father doesn't see me and drive me away again.”

She laughed and tilted her face to look him square in the eye, “He doesn't mean any harm, he just needs some time to trust you. You know knights are.”

“You know, I understand what you were saying back there. Sometimes I think about what it would be like, if we didn’t have this life”, he began slowly. “Don’t you?”

She let the weight of what he said sink into her. “What are you saying Hex?”

“If we didn’t have to do any of it, if we weren’t part of the Knightsclan, we could lead normal lives. We wouldn’t have to live in fear.” He paused. “Or hatred.” His voice suddenly seemed deadly cold to her.

She couldn’t meet his eyes, “But the Evil? Who would stand up to them when they come? We are the wall Hex, we are the only ones. That is our purpose. That is our Belief as it has been for ages and ages. Without it, we are nothing.”

“Magic can be bent, my sweet. It listens to those who speak.” He slowly took her hand and she felt her skin tingle where he touched her, her mind slowly going blank, as if he were pouring water on a slate. “We could be together, in a way we can never be now.” He voice grew soft and she felt herself go oblivious to everything except his gaze on her. “And I know more than anything that I want to be with you.”

He meant it. Of course he did. Her thoughts spun with everything she had just heard Hexicor say, she had to close her eyes to keep from falling down. She pictured a life with Hex, her mind feeling light at the thought of how simple that life could be. She felt her Belief drop away from her, her mind feeling lighter, almost making her giddy.

She opened her eyes and took a step towards Hex, reaching towards him with a smile when suddenly, she stopped short. His face darkened, his brown eyes began to morph into an inky black. His features twisted and she gasped as she recognised the Evil. She stumbled backwards, for the second time that morning and frantically searched the ground for her sword. She struggled to grab onto any last thread of Belief in her mind, willing the magic to flow through her again. He held out his hands to her and in them lay her sword, glinting in the sun as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. She flung out her hand, more out of reflex than anything else, reaching for the familiar hilt, itching for the grooves she knew so well, just as his shrill laughter hit her and her sword began to melt away. She watched helpless and horrified, tears filling her eyes, only now fully realising what she had done.

“The tears will be gone soon, sweetling. You will slip into the oblivion that is the ordinary. Your precious purpose will not even be a memory.” he said as he slowly lay his cheek against hers. He whispered in her ear, “Tell me that all the Knightsclan’s Belief will be this easy to destroy.”

She wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t and that he would not succeed, but couldn’t find it in her to feel what she had to say. She could hardly see through the tears in her eyes and slowly, everything began to fade away.

*** 

A shepherd girl walked out of her house and towards the forest at the end of the fields. She liked to listen to the crunch of the dry leaves beneath her feet and the smell of the fresh sprigs in the morning as she looked over the land. The dark of Evil was stretched across the sky, exactly as it had been since she could remember, blocking any sunlight. As she looked upwards, wondering in fear what the day would bring, she felt again, as she had felt so many times before, a strange emptiness. 

A strong breeze whipped around her as if wanting to knock the smooth wooden staff out of her hand and replace it with something else. She almost thought she felt a shiver run across her arms, a whisper of a memory she did not understand. Then the shepherdess at the edge of the field gripped her staff tighter and turned to walk back home. It was time to feed the sheep.

[This is a story that I wrote a couple of years ago. I pulled it up and just tweaked it a little for now. It began as a random thought; wondering what it would be like if your entire world was built on belief in something - in this case, in yourself, in your purpose. I don't know that 'sword-fighting fantasy' is my forte, but it seemed like a good locale to build a story like this in. Cheers.]

The Infectious Sort of Happiness

The wind and I walked home from work yesterday under a perfect pre-dusk sky.

He whistled happily at the blues and purples and oranges painted above our heads, keeping time with my walk. And as we walked, he pointed things out to me - a baby bird that was learning to fly, a dragonfly couple locked in dance and lone flower growing amidst a bed of dry grass. We smiled silently at each other as we noticed a cloud shaped like a neuron.

Half way through the field of grass we were crossing, he paused. My feet stopped dead and my eyebrows furrowed at how quiet it seemed without his happy whispering in my ear. The very next moment, I heard a wonderful rustling from above my head.

A grin spread across my face as he began to sing me a beautiful song, running trills over the leaves of the tree. He swooshed over the expanse of grass, rippling it in harmony. I watched the green and yellow hues play on the field as he ran through it, singing so loudly that I was almost knocked over with the force of it.

There's no happiness more infectious than the happiness of the wind, I suddenly thought to myself, smiling appreciatively at the world. As the tune drew to a close, he slipped his hand in mine and I felt my steps spin into a twirl. And another, and again after that until I had to catch my breath.

Yesterday the wind stepped out of the sky and walked me home - swishing, humming and telling me things; under a painted sky that beamed companionably down on our giddy, happy souls.

[While I will admit that this is a little insane, even for me, I assure you there's no need to have me committed yet.]

Rooftop

If I found the roof of the world, would you sit with me on the ledge?

If I sat looking at the lights of the world, swinging my legs over that edge;

Brimming with happiness, grinning at the world from that high up

Would you understand with a smile; would you even show up?

Say I did find the roof of the world, and I stood there

Hands outstretched, eyes closed, wind whipping my hair;

Say I stood smiling at the million beating hearts beneath

Would you feel the magic, forget all else and stand with me?

Perhaps you couldn’t possibly understand, perhaps it isn’t who you are

Perhaps you and I are notes from different strings on the Maker’s guitar.

Perhaps you find your peace elsewhere, in someone or something

That’s why to you I seem crazy when I say this rooftop makes my heart sing.

Bubble

[This was written on hot summer's day in May '08 :) ]

Two men caught my eye today. They were sitting in the shade in front of a random shop, totally oblivious to the heat that was scorching the ground two feet away from them. A broken wooden stool and a large stone were veritable thrones and a low cracked table lay magnificently between them. But what made me smile was the pack of cards that lay strewn on the table – they looked like the oldest deck I had ever seen, it was a miracle that they could be read at all. They sat in two beautiful fans in the hands of those kings, their backs worn out just at the places where fingers touched them, probably where fingers had been touching them for many years. 

I loved the picture they painted for me. I loved the way that the sunlight caught in the silver of the old man’s hair, giving him a clear halo. I just had to grin when I saw the younger man, perhaps his son, bite his lip in concentration as he peered at the hand he was dealt. I liked the sound that the cards made as they were flicked across the table, one by one; the swish as the card sailed and the soft, almost inaudible smaller swish as it landed. Every so often, the two would look up from their cards and catch each other’s eye – sometimes smiling, sometimes glaring in triumph, sometimes teasing, sometimes just looking, sharing the companionship in silence. 

The air around them seemed to be so calm and peaceful, and in such contrast with everything else around them that it felt like the scene was a bubble. They were so removed from the heat and sweaty grime, the hurried pace of people around them, the noises of a TV in the background and someone yelling for a ‘beedi’ – all of it. It was like I was looking at this bubble of simple happiness, that had just landed there is some cosmic twist of time and space. 

Of course after a while, the older man caught me staring at them. I wanted to look away because there was no way to explain to him what I had been looking at without having him doubt my sanity but somehow, I couldn’t. Our gazes met steady and he must’ve understood some of what I was feeling or felt the magic of the moment too because he gave me a knowing smile and said “Kheloge?” My face broke into the biggest grin it has seen in a long time and before long the three of us were like three simpleton idiots, smiling at each other in the middle of a street. The bubble now held three.

As I walked away and reached the bend in the road, I turned around. I could still see the halo of sunlight over his head. 

Going trailing

Right now, as I sit in my chair and lean back comfortably into thought, my mind is a map. An unconventional map of places and faces and images and smells; and time. A map that is almost a living being, stretching into these several dimensions all at once. Like Flubber. Or plasma that the physicists talk about.

Tonight my mind is a map of all the points in space where I have left pieces of my heart. Over the past couple of days, perhaps even months, it has felt like that is what life seems to comprise of. Fragmenting your heart as you trek along and leaving a heart-crumb trail for you to look back at.

It makes me smile that I can follow the crumbs to the strangest of places. A piece of my heart is floating in the smell of filter coffee and coconut chutney at Brahman's Tiffin Room in Basavangudi. I can see a chunk that is embedded in the cobblestoned streets of Dresden's Altstadt. I laugh at the warm bit of heart hanging on for dear life as it speeds away from Kurla in a crowded Bombay local. A painfully large block of heart sits on the swing on my porch at home, stretching her legs to catch the rain with her toes.

I remember a scrap of heart in the cold nose of a puppy as he came home to me. More scraps in each moment over the past nine years when he has placed that nose over my feet. A dollop of heart perched precariously with four friends atop a bridge overlooking a highway. A slice of beating heart sprawled on sandy beach enjoying a silent moonrise with a old friend. A crackling fragment burning in a chowki bhaiyya's fire and basking in the light of good conversation.

I can hear words that hack away at a piece of my heart and viciously carry it over the phone line. There will always be a jigar ka tukda sitting cross-legged in the middle of C-lawns, with just black for company. And a shred of heart leaning against the cold marble wall of the temple near by, looking up and falling in love with the Pilani sky. Unforgettably, a tiny fraction of heart will be fluttering and shivering on a rooftop not too far away.

The map stretches against the walls of my mind till everything aches. Bones, thoughts and all. I open my eyes and in an instant, the heartcrumb trail is lost, the map pushed into a pin-size box behind a To-do-list and a flurry of scientific facts. Pay phone bill. Take out trash. Skin-derived precursor cells show similarities to embryonic neural crest cells.

I heave a sigh of something. It's a sad sort of feeling. And so for a quick moment, I place my hand over my chest and feel the familiar rumble. I see the box shake and rattle before going silent; and that somehow manages to be horribly tragic and strangely comforting at the same time. 

Salt-and-Pepper Man

“Penn Station?” I asked hesitantly. I was still unsure of my footing in this place.

“You got a ticket, kid?”

I looked at the salt-and-pepper in his white hair and wondered why his face looked like someone out of a movie. His sharp blue eyes were a colour that never ceases to amaze me, clear and deep.

“Kid?” His accent, loud, brash and hard on the ears, shook me out of my reverie.

“Uhm, no, I need to buy one.” The ‘one’ came out American-style, with a characteristic ‘woy-ne’ sound. I immediately felt a wave of guilt flood through me. I felt like I should go do penance and say ‘thu’ ‘chee’ and ‘kya bey’ over and over under my breath while counting an imaginary rosary.

“Well, I’m not going to charge you the extra three dollars today, but you need to have a ticket before you get on a train, all right?”

“I tried to buy one at the station, but I don’t have a credit card and the kiosk-“

“Oh yeah, it doesn’t take cash.”

“Where can I get a ticket then?”

“You can get one at Penn Station.”

“Yes, that’s where I’m headed. But how do I get one TO there?”

He looked and me and squinted, “And you say you don’t have a credit card?” He looked worried, trying to process this information. I wanted to grin up at him and tell him it wasn’t that big a deal and I didn’t feel deprived or anything. But he seemed to like being sympathetic so I kept my mouth shut, till I couldn't hold back a smile anymore. The lack of a credit card deepened the little crinkly furrow in his brow and he thought for a while.

Seconds passed, with us frozen in our places. My eyes wandered to the lunch box in his hand as I pictured the kitchen where it was packed. I had my money on cold pasta and some kind of juice, probably grape.

After what seemed like a while, he grinned at me and said, “Penn Station, you said?” and handed me a ticket from his ticket booklet.

I took the same train back from Penn Station after work in the evening. And the same train the morning after that. The salt-and-pepper-ed head bobbed in recognition as I got on the train and grinned in appreciation at my two-way-return ticket, bought from Penn Station. I smiled back at the joke we didn't crack.

He told me to “Get home safe” and waved as I got off the train. It felt nice, almost like I had someone to come see me off every day.

As I climbed up the overpass to cross the tracks, I felt a sinking sort of feeling. My salt-and-pepper-train-conductor would dissolve into everyday mundaneness (I’m pretty sure that’s not the word. Mundanity? Mundane stuff? Maybe mundane cannot be a noun. Either way, you get the drift.) He couldn’t wish me every day and wave bye every day, like the first day. That’s not what happens. All things slip into the oblivion that is ‘everyday’ and the excitement, the novelty, always fades. It’s a fact of life. Colours on a canvas fade with the passing of time and there’s nothing you can do about it.

The next morning, I didn’t return his friendly smile with my usual wide-mouthed grin. I smiled a shifty, eyes-avoiding-eyes kind of smile. There was no way to make him understand and he’d think I was crazy if I tried. I was probably crazy. Or cynical. Or both. Argh.

I tried not to look at the empty lunchbox and wonder where he ate lunch as I waited to get off the train at five that evening. He walked up to me and said, “You going to do this every day, kid?”

I felt him ruffle my hair and ask me what was wrong, even though he didn’t take a step towards me or say another word. I looked up at him and said, “Yessir” sounding a lot more cheerful then I felt.

“You might ‘wanna pick up one of them monthly passes then. Could work out a little cheaper.” He paused. “What do you know, they sell them things at Penn Station too…” And grinned wider than I thought his face would allow.

My face itched to break into a smile, but something dry suddenly suddenly flew into my throat from my heart and lodged itself there and refused to let me. I settled for looking into the blue eyes for a moment.

I got off the train. He stood at the doorway and waved. I waited for the “Get home safe” but instead, I heard, “See you on Monday then!”

The dry fluff flew back into my heart and melted into a drop of sunshine. I turned around, grinned, wide-mouthed, teeth-and-tongue in full view and waved.  

Mundanity, the silly thing, could hit whenever it liked. In that moment, that Friday afternoon, with a glorious weekend stretching out ahead of me, I looked mundanity full in the face and told it to piss off. The weekend was here. And the sun was shining. And the salt-and-peppered head would be here to bob a greeting in two days. “See you on Monday!” I yelled back.

[I must've met Salt-and-Pepper Man almost fifty times on the train in the summer of 2010. I never found out his name. And yet, the memory of him in my mind is as comforting as the memory of any conversation with a old friend. 

Until this stupid writer's block of mine passes, I'm just going to dig up things I wrote in the past (like this piece) and post them. I'm hoping some elements in the universe will take pity and return my writing back to me. <sigh>]

There is always a moment when you can steal away and be a child again.

KiddyTimes. SillyRhymes.

Bruisedknees. Stingybees.
Pinkyswears. Truthordares.
Jellysnacks. Muddytracks.
Paintspatter. Noisychatter.
Puddlesplashes. Milkmoustaches.
Bottledbugs. Paintingmugs.
Noodleslurp. Mealyburp.
Smellyfeet. Kissessweet.
Mommysnuggle. Doggycuddle.
Treasuremaps. Afternoonnaps.
Twiddletoes. Picknose.
Insectbites. Brotherfights.
Wormscanned. Neverland.
Bedtimestories. Tinyworries.
Flyingdreams. Lickingcream.
Messynaughty. Runninghappy.
Kiddytimes. Sillyrhymes.

(Three years have gone by since I wrote this poem. And it still makes me smile every time I read it.)