A flower in my garden....

For.... Someone.... I am yet to meet....

For.... Shweta.... Who trained me how to write poems....

A beautiful evening....

We met first time....

We both were excited....

It was like sugar and lime....

We talked for hours....

Sea waves were at its high....

We spoke about everything but....

What was in each others eyes....

I had the best sleep that night....

In a really long time....

I was sleeping with a smile....

Waiting for sunrise....

We waited anxiously....

And again we met....

The twinkle in her eyes and her smile....

Her being oblivious about her innocence my good fate....

Silence we enjoyed....

Words a few....

We didnt want the evening to end....

As always, good moments in life are askew....

Pulled towards each other....

We hugged....

The warmth, the feel....

Inexplicible peace....

We cudnt stop ourselves....

From missing each other....

Even though we didnt want....

Any 'another'....

This time we met....

She drove me around....

I was just looking at her....

Togetherness so profound....

Her eyes were searching....

For something or someone....

Maybe it was me....

Or an illusion I was or none....

Then there was a moment....

Her lips on mine....

I was lost in a wonderland....

Felt like rose wine....

I woke up suddenly....

Only to realise....

She was gone....

Was it a dream? Was it unreal? Were all these lies?

My heart ached....

I didnt want to believe....

I wanted to ignore....

Those moments, I wanted to re-live....

But then something hit me....

And I thought....

Wait a minute....

Why do I need to sought?

Those feelings were special....

Those moments too....

I asked myself 'How did I forget....

No one can take them from you'....

Was it her? Was it me?

Was it the feeling of being oblivious?

Was it our desire to fill....?

What made is so special?

It does not matter now....

Shes a sweet memory....

I think about her and smile....

My single star, sweet you are, very....

FATHER FORGETS - by W. Livingston Larned

For.... my dad.... my pillar of strength....

For.... Kahaan.... The smartest kid in the world.... :-)

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me.

Guiltily I came to your bedside. There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor. At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the

stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years. And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night.

Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bed-side in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed! It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum

with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy - a little boy!”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.