when lola died,
the old house was
washed in a weak light
and memory.

there was
a sepia-tinted haze
sliding down the curved staircase
and frank sinatra songs
running through the living room.

we caught them
before they
floated out the windows
so we could dance
the four-step waltz

our shoes click-clackeley
bouncing echoes off
the marble floors

our laughter
mimicking the chorus
of lola’s saya rustling,
the faint scratched whisper
of her voice.

-Lilledeshan Bose
August 13, 1998

A VERY SHORT STORY
 

Oh, what a night

The last time I saw trees shaping strips of moonlight into curves, I was
ten.

We--my sisters, my yaya, bnches of kinchay, strawberries and jars and jars
of peanut brittle--are bundled up in a car, parked outside my father's
house.

My father is outside, reading a letter just handed to him by my mother, who
is getting into the car.

She slams the door, adjusts the rearview mirror, and asks, "Who has to go to
the bathroom?" My sister starts crying, but no one answers, so my mom starts
to drive away.

When I look back at my father, he is tearing the letter up into tiny pieces.
They're carried across the moonlit strips, until we turn into a curve, and
then I can't see anymore.

-Lilledeshan Bose
April 1999