“You could have spread a newspaper,” she says.
Mother, the dogs leave their fur everywhere
in the house, how can father’s white beard
falling in the yard disturb you?
Also when you groom yourself you drop talcum
powder on the floor. No one says “You could
have spread a newspaper.” Father, you are
lazy when you spread a newspaper on Sundays
but a hero when you spread a newspaper to
cut open the jackfruit, her favourite.
Today while mowing your cheeks and chin,
I see fear in your eyes—first time.
There was a time your wife feared you.
“History changes like newspaper,” grandpa jokes.
I see she aggravates your Parkinson’s and my
compliment about your perfect stubble angers you.
If you had teeth, they would grate. You smile
only when the electric shaver tickles your ear.
Next week, as promised, I will shave your white
hair and we are going to spread a newspaper,
the day’s newspaper, to remind her that she
is a drop, not any wave. I think I’m a good
son who doesn’t spread the newspaper about that
other woman. You’ve been a good father,
giving us a bit of everything. Mother is giving us
arrogance nowadays; it sticks to her like jackfruit glue.
It worries me that no newspaper reports
such news. The past has been unfair to her,
agree. The present is unfair to you, Father,
agree. The past and present have been unfair
to me, and so will the future, but how can
this disturb you both?
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