An old photograph
falls out of a book
the smell of paper,
dust along the spine,
one corner folded white.
A boy beneath a gulmohar tree,
mud on his ankles,
red petals stuck to his hair.
his mouth open mid-laughter.
Somewhere beyond the frame,
Mummy must have been calling him home.
The window is open tonight.
Rain has darkened the road.
A bicycle passes,
its chain clicking through the silence.
From the next building,
a child laughs.
The sound travels upward.
For a second
the room is somewhere else
wet earth,
warm concrete,
the metallic sound of raindrops
hitting the parapet
There used to be questions
thrown into the sky
like stones into a wishing well.
Why does the moon follow me?
Who lights the stars?
Does God hear
when nobody says His name?
Small hands folded badly.
Incense burning down
to a black thread of ash.
And then sleep
forehead against a pillow,
window full of blue-black sky.
Years later,
the same sky above the same roofs,
only the chair beside the window
has gathered books.
A cup gone cold.
Three unread messages.
A calendar with another month
crossed out.
In the drawer,
a deflated football,
two broken pens,
a school photograph,
an unread novel,
a birthday candle
never used.
Things with no reason
to still be here.
Things that stayed.
The photograph is warm
from my hand.
The boy looks past me.
Toward something.
Perhaps the tree.
Perhaps the person calling.
Perhaps that patch of evening
where the sun had turned
everything gold
the wall,
the dust,
his muddy feet.
Outside,
the rain begins again.
Drops gather on the railing
until one grows heavy
and falls.
Then another.
Then another.
I put the photograph
back into the book,
but leave the page open.
The incense from somewhere downstairs
reaches the room.
Faint.
Almost gone.
Still there.
Above the buildings,
one star appears
between two clouds.
Then another.
And for a while
I sit by the window
with the book open beside me,
listening to rain,
while the child stops laughing
The incense goes away.
