Anuja Ghimire was born and raised in Kathmandu, Nepal. She lives near Dallas, TX with her husband and two little girls in the U.S. She works in the e-learning industry and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her works have found home in various online and print journals and anthologies. A Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominee, Anuja is grateful for poetry and poets.
for Pie Lee Tang and Victoria Tang
After my neighbor died in spring,
her daughter gave me a key
to water plants in the backyard
There our fences meet
Victoria had thought she would stay longer
this time with her old mother
and the blossoms
Every sunset, I reach in the envelope for the key
Mrs. Tang leaves her front yard
in her walker. The wheels bump on the grass.
The metal bars thud in her pale, spotted hands.
Mrs. Tang watches my daughters grow in the driveway
I pull one baby from the stroller
and set her on a tricycle
Another crawls on our porch
and hops on a scooter
Victoria rakes fallen oak leaves like every November
and clears the way
When her mother reaches the mail box, it rains.
Often, I experience life in poems and poems in life. When my neighbor's daughter handed me a key to her backyard, I felt the inception of this poem. My neighbor's eyes lit up every time she interacted with my very young children. The passing of a light and the rising of my glowing children feels as natural and delicate as summer rain. This is for my neighbor and her loving daughter.