My PhD Years at Home


On the cul-de-sac
Our home lied – Where I spent my 20s.
A place of fond memories – My PhD years.
It is a very uncommon practice
For a man to spend his post-graduate years
In his parents’ house. But I was an outlier.
I didn’t wish for anything else.

Sometimes, home is not just an enclosure,
A resting place. It is a walled bastion
Where you converse with the people that matter.
And I knew the best conversations I’ve ever had,
Have been with my parents. The egg dropper
And the sperm donor, the gods of my creation story.

And one day the conversation will die.
I will no longer have the luxury of teatime
With my parents. When I will be infected
With all sorts of creatures. Darkness eating me
Like a giant leviathan, fungi abandoning
Me in a labyrinth of mycelia, and a hairy bear
Reminding me of the warmth
They showered.

I’m tormented by that day. Losing your
Parents is bound to shake you up
Drain you, pummel you like a hale storm
And leave you to the wolves.
And I will then look at that cul de sac
And fondly remember the times gone by,
Of when conversation became
The outlived bond of two generations,
Linked by a pidgin that needs no introduction
Or explanation, primed by the covalency
Of love.

And my parents will go to a better place
And I will pull my socks up, wear my shoes
As I journey the long miles in time. A journey
That will no longer be the same.
The lost art of conversation hounding me
Like a caterpillar triggers an immune reaction.
And in that silence I will see the past
Tumbling anterograde, to a place
Where I am washed up to, a place called
Home, locked to an art form.

Of words absenting lips.
Of love bartered by the heart.

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