Friday Mournings

I tip-toe down the stairs,
trying hard to remain silent.
Like every Friday,
the house is enveloped
in a wisp of chocolate air.


I slide into the kitchen,
she's standing near the sink.
Hair smudged in flour,
hands covered in sugar,
busily mixing ingredients.


I kiss her cheek
without expectations.
I tell her I am leaving,
pick up my bag,
and hurriedly say goodbye.


I sit in my bus
and close my eyes.
I recollect Fridays gone by
and each has only
one thing in common, Chocolate.

It's been twenty years now
since her first chocolate.
She was baking for him,
with very little time,
she cooked in her red chiffon dress.

Even today she sits by the window
chocolate by her side
waiting for a man, long gone.
and like her first mourning
the chocolate is thrown away, uneaten.