Twelve letters
The letters you wrote
On squared white pages
Would arrive in sealed manilla envelopes
Fragrant, like sandalwood ittar.
The eight year old me
Would check the mailbox every other day,
On my way to and from school
Yearning for those colorful Omani stamps
Already having drafted a mental reply.
‘Take care okey’ read the letter
A complete page, written in jet black or blue
The deliberate 'e' was so typical of you
Closing with ‘Yours ever loving, Papa’
Followed by your bold signature
That I'd trace for hours on end.
I could imagine you writing
Under the dim shade of a lamp
After an exhausting day at work
In a city far off-
With mile-high skyscrapers,
Dazzling souks and shadowy labyrinths,
Teeming with exotic argan and peculiar spices.
‘Dearestestest Papa’, I wrote with caution,
For I'd just progressed to using the pen
And there was no room for any mistake
Puny pencils were meant for tots.
With ‘Loving’ and ‘Dearest’ engaging in a mental skirmish,
I settled for the superlative.
I'd leave no white space behind,
Creativity spilling off every inch of the letter.
Magical creatures spewing hearts;
Trees with stars for leaves
Confetti generously splattered across the page.
All I longed for was your undivided attention.
Mother would neatly tuck my letter inside hers
Just as she held me within her gentle arms.
‘When will Papa come home ?’ I would probe her in bed.
‘Ssshh. After you write to him 12 times’ she would say.
‘Just 12? That's easy peasy Amma! ’
‘I can write to him a million times tonight.’
Growing up, we'd get to see you once a year.
Spending time with you meant strutting around,
Smiling like a cheshire cat
For our joy knew no bounds.
Today, eighteen years later
Things are pretty much the same.
I know that a million times ain't easy peasy.
But if I write to you twelve times tonight Papa,
Will you come to meet me?
