Seven or Eight
A poem
The stinging chills from the morning breeze
Sweeping through my clothe
My skin forms bumps, goosebumps,
My eyes burn, tearing
I stood at the doorway
Somewhere in my unconscious,
Mother calls for me
Aren’t you going to school?
Today, it’s about the birds
All the birds in the world
Different feathers
Flocking together
The tree
Not protesting
But accommodating
All the birds in the world
Seven or eight, I was
Standing in the doorway
Pondering how all the birds in the world united
Numb
Not feeling the stinging air
Nor hearing mother’s voice
Maybe she’s given up.
I can’t stay back from school
My mind swerving
No!
Today, it’s about the birds
Different feathers
Distinct sounds
Some big
some small
Some coming
Some leaving
Some retuning
I bet I could identify them.
Seven or eight, I was
Pondering
Were their songs to the big father above?
Do they understand each other?
Do they realize the melody they make?
Yanked up
Mother couldn’t wait
Today, it is about school now
Did you see the birds?
Do you realize you’re late?
She wasn’t seven or eight
The next day
I returned to the doorway
There the tree stood
Tall and swaying
But no bird
I prayed to big father
Returning every morning
Shattered hopes
Unanswered prayers
Ten or eleven
I remember seven or eight
Holding on to hope
Praying for that beauty
Twenty- three I am now
I see birds
Not on the tree
But I see birds
Not different feathers
But I see birds
Twenty-three
I don’t remember the doorway
Stumble against the ticking clock
In a haste
Am I a mother now?
Where did my eyes go?
Seven or eight
I saw beauty from the doorway
Will I ever be seven or eight again?
