Surprise

That was the day
Strange and gloomy.
Papa tinkered with utensils in the kitchen.
I got my breakfast a little late,
a bottle of sugared milk and a carelessly jammed slice of bread.

I looked at dad with pleading eyes.
with a lump in the throat
'Mumma', said I.
My voice was perhaps too weak to reach his busy ears
waiting for the cooker whistle.
Gently he kept a pillow under my head
and a teddy by my side and scurried off
to try to cook.

I missed the familiar cootchie cooing of mumma
her songs, her endearments, her lullabys.
Her genial presence, her milky-sweaty
heavenly smell.
Dad bathed me and dressed me in a shabby sort of a way
and carried me to an unknown place.

We entered a huge red bricked building
where all and sundry wore pristine white.
we went inside a small room
where my mumma waited with a surprise.