IT’s that time of year

October 2023

It’s that time of year
in the suburban midwest
when the birch at my window
gets rid of its deep deep green
turns red, turns bronze and
the child at my knee asks:
why do leaves change colour
it’s the forces of nature, child
the rhythm of life, just how things are meant to be

It’s that time of year
when war resounds and weapons clash
in that cursed piece of land
and the child at my knee points to the T.V. screen:
why are people fighting
it’s the forces of men, child
of humankind, it’s just how things have always been

It's that time of year
when my birch stands bare
and the child at my knee goads:
where are the leaves gone
the winds have pushed them out, child
see the grass littered ochre-brown
some curled, some face-down, all lifeless

It’s that time of year
when the sky smokes, flashes and booms
and the child at my knee trembles:
why do bombs fall
to rescue the innocents, child
hundreds who are trapped in tunnels
and to flush out the bad men
teach them a lesson once and for all

It’s that time of year
when dead leaves must be cleared
and the child at my knee demands:
why can’t the leaves stay where they are
they don’t belong here, child
it’s a fall job that’s got to be done year after year

It’s that time of year
buildings razed, neighbourhoods emptied
and the child at my knee wonders:
where are the children gone, I see
dolls with heads or limbs chopped off
and baby shoes upside down
the children, bless them, if they are lucky,
have gone away with their mums and dads
they must leave so that they may live, child

It’s that time of year
there’s a pause in the fighting
and the child at my knee whispers:
why is it so quiet now
these great leaders are kind, child, very kind
they let mums and dads collect their passports
load a cart, walk some miles, cross borders if they can

It’s that time of year
folks like you and me march for peace
and the child at my knee persists:
is the fighting over, baba,
never over, child, never over
history reveals over and over again
revenge is our tradition, a part of the human story
that you will learn, my child, you will learn
soon

October 2024

It’s that time of year…again
the trees are turning, prairie grasses browning
temperatures dipping, rising, dipping yet again
inside, the oven is warm, a pot of tea awaits
family, friends, anyone who drops in
and the child at my knee’s grown
taller, learning the ways of the world fast and easy

Collecting the leaves from the yard
she keeps herself busy all afternoon
categorising them into colours
these are blood-red, aren’t they?
and these, fiery yellow, and these, black, black as death
don’t you see, baba?
my tear-drained eyes affirm her every word

Let’s play, she says,
bombing the cities
Beirut today and tomorrow, what will it be, baba?

She knows her alphabet inside-out
but still she double checks:
A for atrocities or aid denied?
G for grave or genocide?
R for rubble or rape?
F for famine of course
H for hostages or the unmentionable?
I for invasion or imprisonment?
K for kids, screaming, bleeding, dying
S for smoke, siege and silence
when her mother intervenes:
how about C for ceasefire, child,
P for peace?
and S for the two-state-solution?
she stares at her mother
in total disbelief.

Zarin Virji