Months after Baba’s passing
My sister and I
We went home to visit
Amidst the excitement
Of meeting
Uncles, aunts, cousins
We made time
My sister and I
To clean Baba’s house
We felt his quiet presence
In little things:
In his desk
With his fountain pen,
Ink and writing paper
Within easy reach,
In his bookshelf,
In his books,
In Postman and Weingartner’s
Teaching as a subversive activity
(How Baba loved that title)
In the beautiful book
Of Hiroshige’s woodcuts,
In the dotora hanging on the wall
And of course
In his photographs
(Not of him
But by him)
Was he going to just
Slip out of the next room
Calling
Sonati, Moinati
Saa khaba mon gese ni ki?
Having cleaned out his house
Months after his passing
My sister and I
We slept on Baba’s bed
With Baba between us
Like we used to
When we were
Little girls
My little sister and I