At the table for evening tea
I walk some distance on history’s face –
To my left grey memory remains tightly plaited in every strand.
Holding the piece of rich cake, she says,
It was a lot, but you know… we made it through.
And we agree.
She lays her slice on the table
And recalls the nights spent beneath it,
Window panes tightly shut – blackouts up!
The third of nine – she felt helpless
As she looked at the newborn’s face.
Mummy would hum Amazing Grace, and Mamma…
Too stubborn to care for the world, would take a walk to stack the hens,
She laughs.
Crumpled cities poisoned in belligerent states,
Families betrayed, torn apart.
Her prayers run eight decades.
To my right are coarse hands of isolation and work.
With a mug of milk-tea sweetened with jaggery cubes
She recalls how they gulped it down bitterly
While tears rolled down all five cheeks.
Lingering queues and cards
Imposed limits on limits,
More limits to cope with five, the struggle she survived.
Then guns echoed through the hills
And youths disappeared by the minute.
She tells of courage and hard-won fights.
The bus screeches to a halt at the gate.
I see my father opening the latch.
The clock’s ticking.
The next bus goes ahead.
Boom!
Smoke rises to the skies.
Oshanthaka Cabraal is a teacher of English from Sri Lanka, currently living and working in England. He is an amateur writer of poetry and short prose. His work has been published by Primrose Road Poetry, The Pine Cone Review, and University of Iowa (International Writing Programme 2020).
