Home without walls. Family where members are only memories and other strays like the cat in the chair. White paint bottle on the footpath, brush in the wrinkled hand making a home. I stood there watching the man engrossed. Under the red crate was a little chicken in its makeshift abode. Makeshift feels so like the shade I once took under the tree as the shadow built walls around me to protect me from the sun.
The hands though old had not lost the feel of home. It would have been so much easier to just catch the bird and put it in the old cage. This is the road that goes up to the road to the hill where there are illegal huts. All the maids, gardeners, drivers, security staff and sweepers for the big complexes walk up the hill and come down to make our lives easier.
I stood there unnoticed by the old man.
No comments:
Post a Comment