Snow rhythm

Baba and I are in the kitchen. The teakettle whistles, breaking the silence. Snow falls lazily from the grey sky, slowly, sluggishly. Baba and I settle on the couch and watch the snow fall graciously. The tea is too hot so we wait and Baba taps his fingers on the table, as if drumming a fabricated rhythm. I am used to this habit of Baba’s but I ask him to stop.
I have been quiet for some time now. I have forgotten my purpose again. I have forgotten a lot. I have become forgetful. I say nothing to Baba as he sips the tea, his tongue immune to its heat. I have yet to wait for mine to cool down. And by then, he is done with his.
The kitchen is warm from cooking and broiling and baking. I pour Baba another cup. He thanks me and stares outside. I stare with him and we forget where we are. We ignore the phone that rings abruptly. We become the silent watchers of the snow that falls, little by little in geometrical flakes, descending underneath the grass.
He taps his fingers again, making a snow rhythm.

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