Literary Composition

Sometimes I hold your jubba against my chest And wrap its sleeves around my shoulders. I breathe in the warm scent lingering on its collar, Your scent – Enveloping myself to relieve my heavy heart For I’ve forgotten what you looked like. I often bury myself in the tea-stained letters That I never had the courage to send you. And I stare at the photographs of my youth, Only to regret not filling three more albums. Perhaps then it would’ve been easier to memorize The lines that adorn the corners of your eyes And the way your nose slightly crinkles on late evenings Spent in the living room where grandma’s flower pots Rest atop the concrete floor I still remember Dance Bangla Dance Junior playing on the television Right after you came home from the clinic, Having served all your patients with care and diligence. And once the opening jingle echoed through the narrow hallway, Your youngest grandchildren would drop their handmade dolls While the oldest ones shut their school books Just to line up at the front gate where you stood Greeting us with chocolates in one hand and love in the other. We used to sit around the wooden chair reserved just for you You clutched grandma’s favorite teacup While we bickered over the last bits of chanachur muri Stuffed at the bottom of newspaper cones. As we all collapsed in fits of laughter, Your wheezy chuckle resounded. It was music. But the evenings of today feel so lonely, grandpa. Teacups piled up inside the kitchen cabinets, Newspaper cones replaced with glass plates, And Dance Bangla Dance Junior is now off air. If I had known that you’d depart from the world so soon, I would’ve tightened my grip on your jubba And buried my face further into your chest As your love is far more comforting and precious Than an infinite number of chocolates on late evenings.