popo

My grandmother sat in the kitchen all day long,

it gave her glimpses of day to night and how time passed her by.

Her crippled legs forced her to sit and stay while the world drifted away.

Always waiting for someone to come home and turn on the light, 

her woven bamboo hand fan was more for chasing the mosquitoes away than to create breeze.
During magic hours, rolls of mozzies lined up and sucked on her legs like at a buffet table.

An old-fashioned girl, she never believed in doctors and hospitals. She believed in gods, faith and old remedies. But none saved her.

Tiny worms lived inside her legs and they caused her blood to change, poisoning her from within.

She died in the emergency ward and I was 7.  Moments before her death, she reminded her eldest son to give me money for sweets.

Sometimes,  morning like this is something else.