Number 32.
I remember when this place was covered with sand.
When I would run barefoot to my cousins house
And play hide and seek in its maze of stilts.
When I would help Pa gather chicken eggs
And pester Ma to let me have them for lunch.
I remember when the roads were paved.
When I didnt have to walk a whole kilometer to catch a bus
And I got my first scooter.
When Ma passed away
And Pa stopped dyeing his white mane black.
I remember all the piles of wood to be sold.
When houses of brick and cement sprung up where they once stood
And my dad watching it all from his wheelchair.
When I got married
And there was the sound of a newborns gurgle echoing through the
rooms.
I remember crying for Pa and Ma.
When I carried Pas coffin through the grass
And my family stood aside, weeping.
When the house grew bigger
And the rumbling of army trucks carting my son off left the house
quieter.
I remember my son planning his marriage.
When I cried tears of joy
And gave them both my blessings.
When the both of them moved out
And only the both of us were left in the house.
I remember seeing my grandson for the first time.
When I sat him on my lap
And let him play with my walking stick.
When the house had one less person
And I stopped dyeing my white mane black.
I remember.
(And I dont want to forget.)
TOH MUHAMMAD RAYYAN