麻豆约拍

THE GUST-PROOF DOOR
by SUDESH MISHRA

Father was a fix-it man. He fixed the hinge on our gust-proof door when it flapped an injured wing.
Mynahs squabbled in the sunshine and the clouds were mostly sheepish.
Father kneed the doorjamb as he drilled.
My brother spun his spinning top atop a palm stretched out for alms. It shuddered like a newborn chick.
Sister loomed over a picture book. One melon was blue and the rest were weeping.
Out in the yard a wind picked up and mother's pegs rose up in mutiny. She tacked left, right and left again, but was swept away with the sheets.
I scrabbled about on four oars-first watch, boatswain, retriever.
Last night it all came gusting back after the hinge flew off and I knelt down before the wood and his ghost fixed the door.