My grand mother now chuckles.
She is on the last cubicle,
Laid on the floral bed,
for many came to pay
respects to her,
she swallowed much silent and sober,
curled like a nine year old child,
nonagenarian shrunken to
this state: age’s cruel play.
Once the pillar of the house.
Treated with pepper, chanting ,
those that came for Scorpion bite,
herself a flourishing
Tulsi plant.
I recollect, her deft, seasoned hands,
how she would cook green, leafy
and serve the inmates
patiently,
she would sit on the concrete mound
outside and wait for me,
A great soul, now gone,
to a better zone.
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