Those Days

by Neha Parthasarathy

It was two decades ago Amma made like she might refuse your marrying hand
but didn’t. And would it have been any better?
For you, it was a kidnapping from
dusty evenings spent in the neighbor’s yard pinching papayas from trees.

Now more then ever you dream of those days, aged like wine,
playing cricket in overgrown grass, laced with molting cicadas.
Your teammates roaring don’t strike too soon,
run run run.

And you did. Are running still.