It was a photograph, as old as
Their marriage, of both of them.
His face radiating her fulsome bliss,
Now eroded, tarnished and frayed
At the edges, slowly, yet surely.
Trying to tear him out of mind,
She turned over the photo frame.
Nonchalantly at first, and then
It became a pattern she followed
In the other rooms of ‘their home’.
One room after another, she scanned
The spaces, to peel him off the walls
Trying to pour him out like foul wine,
Wiping off his traces from her heart.
Though not in the frame of her vision,
He was still there in the photograph
She had bitterly turned upside down.
She could not remove him entirely
As he continued to live with them,
In bits and pieces, around the house,
In many frames of her reminiscences
Which could not, all be thrown out.
But these got swathed in the burning
Bitterness of betrayal and howling hurt.
In her real life family portrait now, there were
Only her cherubs, who were beleaguered with
Extreme ambiguity towards their runaway dad
How would she fill the gap and heal this hurt?
Her hurt had malformed into hatred, while
The nurturer had twisted into a nightmare.
The wounds were still too raw and sore to
Harness her inner power in this adversity.