Letters are such beautiful homes. They are almost an extension of her thoughts and of the uncharted worlds of her being.. none but only she could be their architect and their mason.. being one’s own client, drowning in the luxury of laying each of its brick with her deepest candor. Its walls are made of a dictionary that’s penned by her.. they give her the comfort of a tired night’s sleep, that one could get only in one’s own bed.
Often she indulges in varnishing her home.. living on it’s impervious yet yielding floors. Many of her beloveds live in her abode. Every night at the coffee table, she pours her heart out to them. To compensate all the rides she’s missed, she plays merry-go-round with them. They laugh incessantly and fall down to the warm embrace of her home. A tear or two makes her shirt’s collar warm.
Sitting by the window that’s sculpted with musings unsolicited, at times, she stares at the morning star. It glows all the more on her serene facade. She paints colors on it; but the star stubbornly sticks to just one shade – that of white. She touches it, needing to feel it’s glowing whiteness on her soft palms. But just when the morning dawns, the blinding white dies away.. probably the star too wants to live a night more. Like her – wanting her home to sing lullabies, for just one more time.
They called them letters.
She called them home.
May the 22nd, 2017