Speak again wind, blow through the virtual hair of my head. 
I hear my children's voices in the yard, 
I hear them gone on the stairs. It's hard, 
But I can't touch them anymore than a jump to the ceiling. 
They became beard-faced altered versions of me bustling
Through the challenges of life, baritone on the phone
Ordering me around, but basically never around. 

I hear their children's voices in the yard, 
I hear them going up the stairs. It's hard
To believe yesterday's a shadow I throw over dinner when
We meet to walk back to the plaid sheets I tugged over them: 
Baby smiles, baby cries, dancing around to close baby eyes. 
All those I have bottled inside, like chutney on a shelf. 

(c) nyonglema