The curtains

By: Bhaavya Jha

My childhood house is no more.
The curtains in the bathroom;
with pink flowers
and blue birds
are torn.

The wooden doors
are crowded with termites.
Maybe it’ll become the childhood house
for them.
But it isn’t for me, not anymore.

The typewriter is still sitting with poise,
glaring at the infinite letters it has written.
And the unfinished manuscripts it has yet to type.

I smell the burning charcoal from the neighbors.
It used to smell of flowers before,
but this isn’t my childhood house anymore.

The rush of adrenaline fills my lungs
as the childish sandboxes trip me.
It has been five hours in this house for me,
and I am still not done laughing.
Haha.
Hahahahaha.
I can’t stop.
And then the tears begin rolling from my eyelids.
They’re salty.
I sob.
And I sob.

It is evening now.
I stand on the front porch,
waiting for the taxi to pick me up.
But I don’t want to go.
This is my home.
I want to live here again.
I want to be a child again.