the sound of my grandma’s laughter
laced with the warmth of the winter sun.
she braids my hair humming her lullaby
as I watch the burnt out ends of the incense stick fall
and the smell of sandalwood lingers around the room
while I silently wish,
“oh how I wish to hold on to every second of this moment,
to inject it in my veins
and relive it, over and over
again and again.”
the shy smile of that pretty lady with grey hair
who sits at one end of the park bench,
listening to old Frank recite his poems.
she blushes as old Frank smile to himself
making me realise,
“that love is maybe more than just
a four worded metaphor
only if I give it a chance,
one day.”
those innocent set of giggles that escape from little Jane’s lips
while she helps her father tend the garden.
wild lilies bloom alongside a host of hydrangeas
as her “withering” elder sister-
(who fears death a little less now)
wipes a teary eye.
for now she knows what to hold on to,
before time slips away.
artsy words 