Amma folded my clothes
into tiny rolls.
So much like the sadness
she keeps bundled within.
Edibles went in as memories
of the savoured moments.
The bag zipped up.
A smile sealed teary eyes.
“The sky is overcast.”
She looks out of an imaginary window.
The table calendar,
with changeable date cards.
Her veiny hands
replace one with another.
“It’s Sunday,” she says.
“People always leave on Sundays.”

Megha is a writer and poet whom you will often find buried in a book. At other times she is a dental surgeon.

Featured image: Tobias Stonjeck / Unsplash