Mornings

The mornings are bearable.

There's tea and Poonam's voice talking away and asking me what to make for breakfast and

the sound of her reminds me of fresh flowers

which we would steal as children

at the early hours of the day during Durga puja.

Poonam is small and strong and agile

and moves swiftly like the wind

And today she wiped off the tears from my face

And stops me from hitting ma and baba

in fits of anger and desperation.

There is naina walking around the house with her tiny feet

like the world is her playground and she owns the very earth she walks on

And she has everyone's attention all the time.

There is dad at the dining table reading the newspaper

And telling me not to smoke.

There is bhoot sniffing her food and refusing to eat it.

She wants what we eat, roti and chicken and break and eggs and chocolate and apples.

Then there's more tea and an attempt at writing for 20 minutes.

With ma, I have a slice of bread and butter at about 11,

after she has brushed and injected the first dose of insulin.

Then there is reading to be done but I'm bored with Chaucer and restoration comedy and I'd much rather text and surf instagram. 

In between there's more tea and cigarettes

And conversations with ma and mock fights with Poonam.

The morning ends at lunch time

And I think that mornings are quite okay.