Sumaa Tekur

Rose and Memories

By Sumaa Tekur

Arts Illustrated's Poetry Contest, First Runner-up

Let her stew.
This is the price to pay. For she dared to dream
Of a lover. To break free
Of the golden hooks that she would wear
As a chunky ruby fingering
As an ornate emerald necklace
That could catch the light
As bangles, broad and slim
That chime for attention
In eager notes
From her wrist to elbow.

She dared to break free of this silk and honey
Of the horde of helpers
Of the heavy dinner set
Of the crystal chandelier
Of the pleated satin drapes
Constrained by the brass tiebacks.

My daughter. She dared.
I wanted her to stew. But it was I that
Sunk in my chair
Drew up the pleats of my sari
Crossed my ankles, and let the heavy anklets drop on the velvet pouf

I sucked long and hard at the hookah
And blew
Rose-flavoured smoke rings
That danced in the mirror of my memories
I sighed.

Rose.
The scent of memory.

I slid the photo out from under the table
From the crevice where it hid
The dark corner of my heart
Where none could peep
My fingers touched
The innocent brown eyes
The oiled hair
The wrinkled white shirt
And the black army boots
That stomped on rosy dreams
And faraway illusions.

I sunk in my chair
Dropping my mask
Plunging into the weight of my memories
Now wilting in the sands of time
Blowing
Rose-flavoured smoke rings
That danced in the mirror of my memories.

How can my daughter escape
The echoes of these bangles
That clink like pinpricks in the heart
Or these bracelets
That shimmer bright with bitterness
Or these anklets
That chain you to the wooden threshold
Or the diamond nose-pin
The act of rebellion
That no one would notice
Or the anklets
Screaming the loudest scream
That no one would hear.

I didn’t dare. How could she?
My daughter. She dared.
I wanted her to stew.
But it was I
That sunk in my chair.