Never liked the dark a bit;
Yet often
She’d turn off all the lights of our home.
One by one then through every room
She’d walk lighting candles of every manner.
Candles, she loved them-
Said their flames flutter like heartbeats, alive
Unlike those cold lifeless glass tops.
Surrounded by her cozy lights
She’d leisurely comb her luxuriant hair.
I’d often watch her in silence,
Take pictures-
In the fusing viscous twilight
As if a full moon ran its dainty fingers
Through the silken strands of rain clouds.
In the soft glow of the table’s candles,
Resting on her elbows and half lying on the floor,
Unrealizing, she would hum her books.
I’d always say-
“You’ll soon have glasses, if you keep this up!”
She’d balance my glasses crooked on her tiny nose
And make faces back at me.
On our days off sometimes
She’d move aside all the furniture,
Amidst the sizzling cooker whistles
Would try to teach me to tango.
Then furious with my clumsy moves,
She’d stomp and storm
Blowing out a few candles on her way out.
All those candles now
Are alight only in the pictures-
On the walls, on the tabletops,
On lonely window sills,
In forgotten drawers, dusty books,
And in my wallet.
The clumsy tango in the emptied room,
That pulling faces with my glasses
Those hummed book tunes
Or her face aglow in the mirror,
Keep flickering on and off
Like senile lampposts
On many memory corners,
Flashing fleeting moments of life
On an otherwise mere existence.
In this lonely house now
Only electricity remains alight
In cold, lifeless glass tops;
Lest these memories melt and vanish
Like a blown out candle’s smoke.
