“DID YOU WRITE THE LETTER?”

My mom, her daughter asked.

I couldn’t, I haven’t.

What should I say-

I can’t write anymore,

I type.

MY GRANDMA, A GRAND OLD DAME,

ninety-year-old beauty,

lives in the past.

This past has no cursors,

no screen, no keyboard.

paper is what grandma

with her wrinkly hands folds,

Ink is what she draws

sustenance from,

My old, old gram.

I LOVE MY GRANDMA, I DO.

I want to write to her,

Ink my love onto pages,

I’ve lost all ability to pen

no words to spill,

only keys to hit,

at crazy speeds.

I LOVE GRANDMA, I DO.

I will write to her, or perhaps dictate

into my mobile,

then hit send to a writer.

who will then scribble

words from my heart,

on to paper made of tree-bark.

MY FINGERS THEY LOCK WHEN

they see blank sheets

begging to be filled.

I pray & I hope to

bridge this paradox,

the one who taught me to write,

is one who waits,

for my written word

A LOVE-LETTER TO GRAM PEN I MUST.

she can’t leave minus

my tender scripted touch,

a grand-daughter’s love

spilling into her heart’s corridors,

and carry their warmth to her grave.

©kamalininatesan