Winter, our time of the year

And it’s winter again.

Recollections of wild chase around the pine grove are as afresh as dew drops on rhododendron. The way our paws and whiskers bore smithers of what Calvy & fernfly used to call Snowman. That shade of blue that sky wears a day after it has snowed. How every twig that fell on tin roof would turn your velvety ears and our communion would often blame the fat monkey or Mr. Tewari’s cat.

Winter, our time of the year.

This year, the turn of season has had the color of melancholy. Every season brings me back to the memory of its last visit when you were here by my side. Of that summer, fall and autumn that wasn’t mine but ours.  Were you here, you would have echoed my laughter to see the kids wading off at the word of wedding which is recited time and again with every invitation that is dropped by the mailman.

Memories of last winter. RIP Rusty.

And as jerkins and blazers find their way out of the closet; their iron pressed sleeves still have your silver hair in them; quite like school emblems. Like you, the threads of your memory too remain knitted. No vacuum cleaner can wipe the winter of my furry friend.

Rusty, stay blessed, wherever you are.

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7 thoughts on “Winter, our time of the year”

  1. “Of that summer, fall and autumn that wasn’t mine but ours”, and “their iron pressed sleeves still have your silver hair in them”. The two lines, written beautifully. It breaks my heart to read this.

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