POETRY
Grandma’s Wooden Mirror
Still There
That little mirror carved out of wood, intricately designed,
layers of dust, gathering on the artsy curvatures, lying,
lying somewhere in the rubble of unused items in the house,
I wonder what stories it has hidden inside it.
I remember grandmother, combing her hair, looking into it,
when she got older, I held it, as she tied the knots in her hair, gently,
multiple knots, one atop the other, whilst looking into the mirror,
and placing it back on a shelf on the wall,
lined with more of her little belongings.
I remember her sometimes, casually, immersed in it, looking deep, a bit thoughtful,
perhaps counting the increasing criss-cross of the lines on her skin,
reminiscing those days, she had smooth skin, carefree childhood, happiness laced on her face, no worries about anything,
a whole railroad of life lay before her, whispering songs to her,
and long, long hair, flowing on and on,
reduced now, a lot, coloured in greyish white, a solitary golden peeking through,
maybe she kept smiling, at the time that flowed by, changed, evolved her,
this mirror of hers, proving to be a medium,
to peek into her bygone journey, her…
