Guava Grove

 

It was a long walk home.
Hungry and cranky,
I whinged and whined
dragged my feet
nagged at grandma
tugged her hand,
pulled her dress.

Resigned,
she sighed
carried me
to a nearby alcove of trees
to rest.

The keeper,
or perhaps the owner,
out of generosity,
or perhaps to break the monotony,
offered us the freedom of the woody grounds.

The day suddenly changed colour.
I ran ahead, into a guava grove
leafy dark, magic,
circles of sunlight sparkling on the ground.

We gorged on guavas,
crisp and sharp
squishy and sweet
oozing  juice,
licked our fingers
 wiped on Grandma’s scarf.

She washed my hands and face
with water we pulled up from the tube well,
taught me to cup my palms to drink,
let me wash her feet,
squealed when I soaked her,
stood straight and sang,
hands wrapped round my wrist,
as I danced around her in the sunny circle.

Today
I visited grandma.
Old, bedridden,
she mumbled,
in diseased accents,
about
guavas!

She is confused,
they all muttered,
concerned,
tired .

Only I smiled.

September 2018