7 Nov

He is in the garden admiring his roses

the yellow in full bloom, the red not quite.

He is in the study sorting out his books

recommending the one that I have missed reading,

handing it over to me.

He is in the living room of the house

clearing his throat as he reads this morning’s news.

He is asking our mother to slow down

come sit with him and enjoy her tea.

He is carrying my younger one

on his piggyback one minute,

and helping the older one climb

the mango tree the next.

He is in his brown suede  slippers that sit still

along with his many pairs of shoes

in the shoe closet.

Between morning and night

and night and morning

in this charming house that he called home

my father is everywhere

and nowhere.



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