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IF WISDOM HAD A SMELL (A POEM)

If wisdom had a smell It would smell of old books Passed down from generation to generation Revealing the truths about the enigma called time. The truths which cannot be purchased Even by the highest bidder. That smell that unveils the arduous work of writers Known and unknown. That smell that reveals family trees of readers Seen and unseen. That smell that conquers ignorance Once knowledge is sought. If wisdom had a smell It would smell like an old, well-read copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin Revealing the evil behind the thoughts and actions of slavery. That smell that encompasses sacrifice. That smell that brings words and characters to life. That smell that raises positive movements that will In time, save humankind. If wisdom had a smell It would smell of old wrappers Worn by mothers and even fathers, Instinctively used to wipe the tears Of their children away, Used with love to cover them from the rain or sun. Oh, the smell of that long piece of fabric With drawings of horses, stars,...
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WHEN WE ARE OLD


 

I heard them laughing, pointing at different buildings at each bus stop. Some were tall, old, and short buildings but they had something in common. They were whitewashed. The daughter talked more than her mother. She even laughed out loud sometimes as if they were the only passengers onboard. They occupied the first two seats on the deck of the bus and could see the clouds moving slowly even better than the driver. The daughter pointed to a small house and said to her mother: 

“Ma, do you remember Auntie Debbie? She used to live in a tiny house just like that. Ha-ha! It was too small to even accommodate our cat when I was 7, remember?”

“Yes, I remember darling. But you’re all grown up, tired of kitty. She is all mine now.”

They both smiled and then the daughter mumbled something, and it turned into a wild laugh, as if something went awry in their heads. My mother will not laugh with me like this.

Never! I thought. In fact, I dared not laugh at anyone’s house - big or small. What effrontery this little girl, in her early teenage years, had. I felt like pulling her blond hair that was starving from brushing, and yanking her out of the bus. 

I noticed other passengers were becoming disgusted by the mother and daughter relationship.

Many of us had a stressful day at work, school, or on the move, job hunting. We

wanted blessed quietness. 

 

We drove past the Royal Infirmary all lit up, revealing sections of rooms with people moving about. The car park was filled to the brim and I wondered if the cars were owned by the medical staff or those visiting their loved ones. The daughter points at the more than 12 story building - the most beautiful out of all the pointed structures - and says:

“I bet grandma is somewhere in there right now, yelling at every nurse trying to make her day

beautiful. I must say, I hardly even miss her. Glad you took her away.”

“Hey darling, you’re right. She’s in there and must be giving her carer a hard time. That’s what comes with old age, you know. You tend to blame everyone for your past

mistakes, unmendable. And then every bug that passes would hug you tight. And

then hospitals will welcome you with open arms.”

“Will I have to send you there too when you are old, Ma?”

“I hope you don't, darling. I hope you don’t.”

“But Uncle Rolin is away at a care home somewhere out of town too. I know you sent him there so he wouldn’t hurt himself after he smashed your car because you trashed his cigarettes.”

“Hey, there are things you should not be interested in, darling. Let the old deal with the older and let the young focus on being good.”

“I don’t think your theory has been evaluated, ha-ha.”

 

They continued with their chit chat as we passed bus stops after bus stops. My mind visited grandma in the infirmary. She would look bitter, with grey hair begging to be shaved. She would throw her plate of food at everyone who tried to be her savior. Days and nights would be like years to her and her thoughts would be filled with regrets from her youth. She must have raised her daughter badly, or she must have been a terrible person. Old age should be fun, relaxing, except for tired bones. We should be surrounded by family, eating and laughing and reminiscing about the old times.  

 

The sound of the bus stopping brought me back to my surroundings. I saw the mother standing up and then her young one. They had reached their stop and I was glad we weren’t heading the same way. She looked lanky and tall, smiling from ear to ear as if she sighted her lover far off, and the daughter looked chubby and short, eager to get off the bus. There was no thinking twice about it. The Ma will end up in an old people’s home, if not the mental wing. I caught a glimpse of the name of the street as the bus started on. It was called Gravesend.

 

Don’t forget to be honest!

Photo by Prince Kumar


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