Too Cold
By Vishaal Pathak
It's that time of the year
When my will to get out of bed
tiptoes each day at dawn
and knits a veil the Sun hides behind
I'm getting all sad again
It’s not the dip in mercury
Or the chattering of teeth
Or numb feet
Winter is perhaps just an excuse
It's that time–
that sends you flashes
postcards and long unread letters
From when she stopped returning calls
felt weary all the time
And fainted a minute into her jog one morn
That time–
of blaring sirens
muffled shrieks
and squeaky wheelchairs
And the night you ferried her on a stretcher
and still have her sock from
It’s that time–
she gradually shrunk
from a mighty mother
into a scrawny schoolgirl with pigtails
Then overnight into breeze
and dust and ether and dew and fire
It’s that time–
When words condense into fog
Tears crystallize
And blood coalesces into a blob
That time when it's too cold
even for a funeral pyre.
END
Author Bio: Vishaal is a writer based in Lucknow, India. He writes mostly about memories, ethics, and time.