Going Away

There was a time, I used to leave the house without a thought.

Pack food and clothes and gifts; put trinkets/valuables away,

make provision for the dogs, leave money to pay for milk.

Then climb into the car and zoom off, spirit free,

filled with excitement, shivering, a little jittery

And those mumblings of quick prayers for everyone's health and safety,

and many wipings away of unreasonable tears.

Now, even more unreasonably, I linger in the bathroom,

staring at my half-used soap, the nightclothes behind the door.

I miss myself already. She's gone. 

I look with absent eyes.

The everyday lipstick that I won’t be taking with me tomorrow,

the to-do list (under a magnet) on my cupboard,

inside, a saree bought in 2018 awaits 'a suitable occasion' to be worn;

and one I stopped wearing years ago but never threw away,

because it was a gift from my mother.

A bag of blouse-piece fabric waits for the good tailor I never found.

My ongoing knitting projects, trunk stuffed with bags of wool,

my diary, its pen-cum-bookmark, the writing on the pages.

They all tell of my presence - and my absence – in each room.

Reassuring, these signs of unfinished business: they say, “You will be back”,

and yet somehow these days, each going-away has become more difficult.