he had promised when he stepped out
the door,
to bring candles and crackers
for the evening, saving graces
for a year spent in counting
grains on the bottom of the urn
and potatoes dug from the ground
sharing that in a family of five.
That he would not return, amidst rains
and summer heat, amidst
loss of memories that counted in
a storm that broke the house,
water flooded inside
took a happy child
and returned.
Today, that he returned, seven years hence
phool jharris, candles, diyas, anaars in hand
for the daughter who had died,
for the son who had grown up from the
rocker horse, pulled carts outside,
for a mother who could not see or hear
and a wife he no more recognized.
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