Stories

You’ve never told me stories.

There aren’t even distant memories;

that unmoving bundle on the bed

is all I’ve ever known.

A young me would cower at the door,

every year,

afraid of the

stillness around you;

the shadows around where you lay.

I’d have to be coaxed:

Go closer. Let her see your face.

“Hello ammoomma.”

A ritual chant

that lost its meaning

over innumerable vacations.

You’d smile sometimes.

Call me by a name

that never was mine.

The older me,

--the one with a book in her hand always

--sought solace in the quietness.

I remember the first time I

tried to touch you.

No coaxing voices.

That shimmer of the old fear

that melted after the shock

at the warmth

of your unmoving hands.

Why did I expect coldness?

Why did the tears well?

Years later, the ritual remained,

but when I come back this year

(I stayed away,

and now

the baby is due)

the bundle is missing.

I sit on the edge of the empty bed

-- gingerly, still--

and I wish you were around

for the New One.

She

--it’s She in my head now

-- won’t even know

what it’s like

to seek stories

in the seeming silence

of the room.

In the rain dropping off the eaves.

In the creaky fan.

In quiet rhythmic breathing.

<go closer>

In bed sheet wrinkles.

In a warmth that was supposed to be cold.

I couldn’t find it in me

to believe in spirits.

(Did they fail, all those books?)

In that empty room

nothing remains for me.

There is now only the faint remembrance

of grandma’s farts and echoes.

<go closer let her see your face>