Cashew cookies and a glass of milk

I lost my paternal grandparents a few years back and this poem is dedicated to one of my favourite childhood memories with them.

I had my own kingdom as a kid
and it spanned my grandparents’ place,
where running indoors caused delight
and no one cared for the will-fall vase.

In the evenings, a glass of milk
waited for us by the kitchen door
and accompanied by it were some cashew cookies,
which we always ended up asking more.

Every nook had secrets, every step had tales,
every wall stain by us was their joy.
You just had to peep in the store room
to find our every used toy.

Baba with his leftover Dad-jokes
and Amma with her blessings on the phone
left memories so vivid and real
that it’s hard to believe they are gone.

Now nooks are just nooks, steps mere steps,
and wall stains mean plain stains.
Gone are the two people who would happily allow
me to dance in the monsoon rains.

I still buy those same cookies
to go with my occasional lows.
Sometimes they taste just the same
and sometimes they aren’t even close.

 

Copyright © Neha Sharma