Rachael Joseph
I saw your face today in a photograph taken when you were old. Old like a grandfather, not young as I remember you. Your eyes looked dark and stern as if they had never seen joy. Smiles had not wrinkled the corners of your mouth. Your hair so white against the blackness of your skin. You wore a patterned shirt, unbuttoned. The once toned body you were so proud of, Now boasting an old man paunch. Still strong, you held two small children, one in each arm. They smiled for camera. You did not. It seemed to me age had not softened you. I saw your face today for the first time in fifty years, and I became a frightened child again. I cried. I cried for all the years I spent trying to forget. *Tales from a west Indian childhood, Morgan’s Eye press 2020.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *Material should not be published in another periodical before at least one year has elapsed since publication in Whispering Dialogue. *أن لا يكون النص قد تم نشره في أي صحيفة أو موقع أليكتروني على الأقل (لمدة سنة) من تاريخ النشر. *All content © 2021 Whispering Dialogue or respective authors and publishers, and may not be used elsewhere without written permission. جميع الحقوق محفوظة للناشر الرسمي لدورية (هَمْس الحِوار) Whispering Dialogue ولا يجوز إعادة النشر في أيّة دورية أخرى دون أخذ الإذن من الناشر مع الشكر الجزيل
