We were family.
Our quaint townhouse looking
Like delicious gingerbread
Made passersby hungry,
for warmth, tradition, companionship
That they imagined inside.
The cozy red shuttered windows,
Glowing red tiled roof,
The rose and bougainvillea bushes
The ivy creeping upto the cornices.
My heartbeat dilapidated each day
Lying on the pallet
Sickle celled and sickly, anemic, unfed.
My wicked witch from nightmares
Dominated stepfather,
The fake dad mom left us,
After daddy died, and then she.
I was weakening daily,
unable to rise,
Unaware of sunrise,
Of the course of sunlight upon ivy
Creeping through time,
Or the soft bloom of roses
Looking askance,
At the human cruelty of
Indifference.
I was waning fading wasting
Facing the end
Of the pebbled road of life
Where every bread crumb
Only led back to the witch.
This was my family
I wouldn't wish upon
the most bereft orphan.
On Thanksgiving day
I was given a bun.
I made a feast of it.
Oven fresh and warm.
Watched the sunshine streaming in
Drank a tiny cooling sip.
And unaware, I watched my final setting sun,
As blood trickled down my burning poisoned lips.
And passers by, they all mourned me.
When my "family" from our house did flee.
And every Thanksgiving ever after
They came in droves,
picnicking below my window
Where they broke bread
To offer to me.
(c) Amrita Valan
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