There she is, her fat bottom resting
on the faded chintz sofa in the corner,
her bemused and crinkled hands
counting each little loop on the needle,
her eyes scratchy with seventy years
of squinting through bright light and dark.
It is the hour of midnight dreams
Outside, the dogs start their howl.
I watch her, a little restless
It's time for my nighttime medicine
and she seems to have forgotten.
She's knitting an azure muffler
for our daughter with the impatient eyes,
confident that she will love it.
I fear for her, for her childlike trust.
She used to be lovely.
Standing near the window on a chilly night,
brushing stray strands off her face,
fingers smooth and long
an artist's fingers, or a writer's,
her hands lingering
a little longer than necessary
because she knew I was watching.
© anindita sengupta