With a scent of guavas

With a scent of guavas

Around this time of year

A small box arrives at my doorsteps

Bearings from my mother's garden

Fist-sized guavas 

One by one 

Wrapped in plastic film

Again in colored newsprints

I could see her with my mother

Hunched over the kitchen table 

Ma's knee rested on top of a chair 

Guavas sprawling across

Stems off, leaves off 

Busy with their hands

Cupping gently

"This one, Po-Po."

As she brushed a wild strand of hair

Away from her face

When I saw her last

She was lying still 

In a carton box

Size of a cello 

Corners 

Cut off 

And re-taped    

Inside a plastic bag 

Her face covered 

With a white cloth

At the tongue of the blazing oven 

She went in with our blessings  

This year 

I am waiting 

Hoping 

Praying
Perhaps

A small box  

With a scent of guavas

Returns to my doorsteps