“Papa, we’re already late.” Rhea stood beside the car with one hand on the open door while her father remained in the middle of the pavement, peering through the viewfinder of his camera. His subject was a letterbox. It was an old red one fixed to a leaning post outside the neighborhood post office. Its Read more…

I watched you, Mother, Step beyond your silver hair And aching knees, Leaving those seventy-five years Behind you. Suddenly, You were the little girl again, Pulling on a frilled frock, Quarreling with your younger brother Over a rag doll That belonged to neither of you, Or a basket of sour mangoes Neither was willing to Read more…