Holiday Chores

Sunday- the day when you can be Yourself- and not let be ruled – A day to do what you wish to do And not what others want you to do.

Sunday – the day one could read Even the most insignificant ad A day you need brush your teeth Only when you want to eat.

I have a little duster, of soft Synthetic bristles – to dust The books, tables or the shelves And an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.

There’s something about cleaning, Dusting, tidying up and swiping. A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain, A crack that weren’t there before.

Today, I took on the showcase shelves Souvenirs, scattered, of a life gone by. A fan from China that my uncle brought A medal my father earned for service with merit. Glass flower vases, my mom’s valued prizes Headless dolls my sister and I played with. A bowl my granny used to fill with fruit, Statuettes of dogs and such other stuff.

I clean them, dust them and keep them back, Wondering what value they have. What would they mean to my wife or son, These worthless pieces, when I am gone.

In the stillness of days and nights When I am gone, the winds would blow. Specks of dust would settle and stain White dustsheets would shroud my life.

Forlorn, forgotten, fritted away My life, like a photo fading away Where colours give way to meaningless grey. Then one day- Torn or crushed and swept away.