Before Departure

Jeddie Sophronius

A night I spend packing & repacking until the dog falls asleep on her tail.

Daylight behind the purple curtains licks my eyes. The rooster crows in response to the dawn call to prayer.

Mother returns from the flea market. Brings tulips & sets them on a ceramic bowl of water.

I kiss her on the cheeks.

Half-boiled eggs over rice for breakfast, a yellow pond in the snow.

Before the red suitcase drifts from the front door to the driveway, one last look at the dusty framed photos:

Hindu temples on the slopes of a sleeping mountain; two men practicing T’ai chi on a hill—

knees half-bent, toes inward, hands calm as breeze;

me, a two-year old, hair still long, sitting on a boulder, nibbling an unpeeled orange.

Take me away long enough & I will forget all this.