Cursive Memories
Nithya Mariam John
Sunny leaves,
twisted in the hot air…
Poetry is pain,
I sighed.
A bubble of laughter shoot over my scribbling hand.
My four-year-old child metamorphosed into squeals and
peals of laughter!
At my quizzical eyebrows,
she darted the sweetest of her smiles, and said,
“The ‘f’looks like you bending over to kiss me”.
An avalanche of memories-
Strokes.
Slanting lines.
Sleeping lines.
Slate.
Chalk. Scribbling. Shapes. Pencils. Eraser. Cursive Writing.
Sharpener. Ruler. Pens. Red ink. “Illegible”. 250 pages
of four-line-books.
“Practice hand!” The art of hand. The master’s moustache
twitching slightly. Cane on the
t
a
b
l
e……………………………….
……………………………………………………………………….melted all over me,
like a long evening dissolve in the sunset,
and slowly fade into a moony night.
My pre-school daughter fell into my arms laughing,
still laughing…
***
