The piles of the dog-eared years, once-precious docs, collections
turn into an accumulated junk of brittle layers.
Dumped memories swirl, settle down. Finally, consigned to airless
attic, garage.
Frozen moments stored, soon-to-be
cancelled by moving hands of time.
What counted then, no longer
counts now: teddy bears, old shoes,
trophies, albums, sweaters—detritus
of the hazy decades lived fully, another life.
The pink-faced walls, framed pictures,
vases, nooks, corners, spiral stairs, the
twisted corridors that circle around,
the sad feline, persistent,
scratching the locked doors, hopeful.
The dormer windows, red tiles,
lawns, trees, street, sidewalks
familiar, comforting in blizzards
on
white nights.
Now: complex of cold, dark labyrinths
of
time, histories, segments, all defunct.
Another port to reach before dusk; a place of odd-sounding names.
Some journeys! They continue without fixed address.
New Ithaca shimmers ahead.
Towers
rise up out of rolling blue mists.
A strange moon hangs in an alien
sky.
The familiar walls look unfamiliar.
The ceaseless
Sisyphean labour starts, again.
.
—Sunil Sharma
Picture Nick Victor
