Inventory by Reena Prasad
Inventory He lies, glass over him, his twinkle hidden under lids prodding open my easier-to-open vaults with his frail frame prompt and now I see him throwing rolled-up rice into the air his mouth opening at the right moment to catch the ball (I hoped one would fall) closing the windows on my teen-ambushed nights Me, opening them silently after midnight just a little and the cat and the moon pawing their way in and out. His body-shaped space on the cot bordered by books he never read Hitler, Thakazhi, Nehru and Galbraith, only rare editions I would take one and nudge the others closer to not distort his aura. Now he has only the coldness and no say at all about its confines. An overgrown yard, thin, yellow-armed cuscuta dangling from nameless trees, night jasmine strewn on grass, a busy breeze, the kitchen with a single tea pot, a spoon, a cup, a hot plate, a wooden chair and his brisk footfalls- meager but adding up to only hi...