Saturday, April 13, 2013

You know how you are at nineteen

You know how you are at nineteen,
halfway through despair and hope,
 trying to quit some things, trying to
pick up a few fallen dreams, stepping on
 crunchy brown leaves, talking a wrong
turn on the way to the dentist, feeling as
scared as you were at six when you suffered
 your first toothache, and finding a florist,
your eyes feasting on riot of colours
each bunch more lovelier than the other
 yellow daffodils just the way Wordsworth
 described them, violet gladiolus, pristine white lilies,
 though you trampled on your mother’s flower beds
as a child and delighted in plucking them, intending it
 for prayer services to a deity of toy- blonde blue-eyed
teen on a her red convertible, the envy of
 the neighbouring kids, and then you think
of how you would be a twenty-something, with a house
of your own-furnished with white curtains with delicate
 prints of carnations daintily flying to welcome you
as you open your door, a warm red rug
 at the centre of your living room, yellow chairs
in the kitchen, shelves of books in every room,
 a clock from a street in St. Moritz, the wall hanging
 from Rangoon and other things, because by then
you would have been to a few places, covered 1/110th of the world,
 so  you imagine how at twenty-something,
you would pick up a bunch of flowers and head home?

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