Stars;coldplay

Look at the stars,
look how they shine for you.
And all the things you do.

-coldplay, yellow.

Grandmother

A Sunday morning.
I woke up to the knock on the door,
you've arrived.

This morning you came for breakfast.
A rare occasion for you were always travelling,
going somewhere,
working--cleaning offices.
And during times which you weren't, you settle in front of the sewing machine kit.
And sew,
pants, bags, mattress covers, blankets for the family.

This morning, we sat at the dining table.
I felt a tinkling of my heart,
sudden warmth enveloping,
spreading its long hands aound me.
(long forgotten)

Over pancakes, coffee and hot chocolate,
we listened to the ancedotes you pulled out from each of your travels
as we passed the butter knife around the table.

After breakfast,
you came into my room.
Glance fugitively around,
with a quick hand pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill,
forcefully pushing it into my busy hands.

"Here, take, i don't come every often. The food cost so expensive these days. $5.80 for a bowl of udon. Use this to buy something nice for yourself."

I looked at the note lying limplessly on my hands.
Still.
Folded again and again into small rectangles to fit into your purse.
Then i looked into your eyes.
I saw the beginnings of cataracts formation--
the watery texture of the whites and dilution of black.
The face of grace and compassion
lined with a few more wrinkled,
whose cheeks now sagged further.
I put my hands on yours,
they were painful against your calloused ones.

On leaving,
I saw your familiar silhouette.
Bags and plastic bags slumped across both shoulders.

However,
gone were the lithe in your steps
as you walked towards the door
like treading on thin ice,
like a migratory bird--tired from flight.

I smile at the familiar,
tear for my cowardice,
cringe at the unknown.

Hair cut

I'm finally going for a hair-cut.
finally isn't really a long span of time, it's just 2 months probably.

I am dreading the trip.
not because i cannot bear to part with my hair (that's trival!),
not because of the friction that toothy comb makes with my skin,
but rather,

afraid of not recognising
the person staring back at me.