Hard to tell
if memory inhabits me
or I inhabit memories
**
of magazines lining my mothers tin trunks
smelling of the 70s
and recipes of apple fritters
songs on radio
a window seat that opened
to dreamscapes
painting themselves in my head
life that went on flowing unabated through
everything
..
memories
of homes that smelled of childhood and bowls of fruit cream
of open windows
and fresh linen
and innocence
and people long gone
**
Maybe nothing ever goes
nothing ever stays
but lingers in that
space between absence and presence
**
and breathes
with us
till we stop breathing
**Art by author
**
Reema Moudgil has been writing for magazines and newspapers on art, cinema, issues, architecture and more since 1994, is an RJ, hosts a daily Ghazal show, runs unboxed writers, is the editor of Chicken Soup for The Indian Woman’s soul, the author of Perfect Eight (http://www.flipkart.com/perfect-eight-9380032870/p/itmdf87fpkhszfkb?pid=9789380032870&_l=A0vO9n9FWsBsMJKA
Excellent as always Reema!
Maybe nothing ever goes
nothing ever stays…..
beautifully said !
Beautiful!
and breathes
with us
forever and forever