Many a day I have spent on shelves,
In all her homes, from her current one to her past
My bright red spine a clear reminder
Of the stories, the adventures I hold
Long forgotten tales waiting to be told.
And though many more books have come and gone,
To her, I am a memory of the times
When simple stories, with clear morals
Was just what would suffice to make sense
Of dilemmas, of challenges that seemed too intense.
But that was from a different time.
Life now seems to be a lot more complex
With many rights and even more wrongs
As she struggles to find some answers, some hope,
In the fleeting images of life’s kaleidoscope.
In the confusion and the weariness that now prevails
I have been a witness to her struggle with words
When she writes, when she speaks
And of late even when she thinks
Of ways and means to fill the missing links.
Last month she picked me up one last time
Seeking comfort as one might in a tattered quilt
But when one has lost one’s own voice and speech
No authors’ words or lines would ever
Deliver any meaning, no matter how clever.
While it’s been hard to say goodbye
To the shelf, to those hands that held me with love
It does make sense that she now seeks solace
In a box of dry pastels, 20 shades no less
Offering her the potential to sort through the mess.
I can see now she is making space
In her life, on her desk to find time to play
With colours, more than words unlike the old times
Tiny doodles making way to art on A3 sheets
That's perhaps the place where confusion and clarity meet.
And though I am resigned to a future in a second-hand
store,
Not sure when I will find a friendship like hers,
I do wish that over time, the colours you hold
Will help her escape from words that bind
And march forth with hope, leaving despair behind.
(Prompt : A letter from something I have thrown to something I purchased recently)
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