Rhea D'Souza: May 2018

I start to write 

And stop..many times

I am not waiting for words. 

Every time my pen starts a letter 

A whole paragraph almost completes and ends in my head 

And I restart..

So many words are trying to fill 

The many nooks and crannies of my self ..

as the self shifts..grows  expands 

through cuts…

I am reminded of my grandma baking bread.

After all the pulling together..kneading ..smoothing ..of the dough ball.

Just before it is put inside the oven 

She would  ‘cut’ the dough ball in a few places..

I would wince at the breaking of the smooth exterior and wonder ..

Why?

I know now..

It is to help the bread grow into those cuts.

Without them the bread would just burst.

I wait till the words can change shape 

And be patient 

And wet and soft 

The cuts are still raw.

The aroma of fresh bread

Soon.

Rhea

  It came down 

Gently at first and then 

In torrents

The first rains

I raised my face and stretched my arms wide

In surrender

Let it wash over me.

A few moments later.

I realized I was holding my breath

In anticipation 

For what??

I wondered…

Pause

Puzzled.

What about it didn't feel right??

Silence…

..and then 

I realized what my body

Was waiting for..

The accompanying sweet smell of mud

As the rain water hits the parched sun dried earth

And the almost instantaneous heaving sigh of the earth 

as the waters touch her…

I remembered that..

Closed my eyes as I remembered that …

I could almost taste the mud.

That

Was missing.

I was getting drenched…

But the water had not touched me.

I open my eyes

Realize.

I was by the ocean

I was at sea.

Rhea

Rhea D'Souza