There she lay on her couch,
A tired soul!
Tiny sobs rocked her
Her crumpled face,
a wilted flower,
I hold her in my arms,
She clings to me
and looks at me
with a questioning glance.
Then a feverish rasping whisper I hear,
“Listen! the phone’s ringing,
that’s my father dear!
“But why doesn’t he speak with me?
Her voice trembles, cracks and crumbles.
She moans and wails in mist of forgetfulness
where unreal shadows hide and lurk.
(How do I tell her that her father’s long dead and gone!)
I hug her but with a hopeless fear
her delicate face is wracked with pain, wet with tears.
Alas! she is but a prisoner of memories..!
Holding her hand , I sit by her side.
Her hand , my hand, our hands…..entwined!
Loneliness hurts but what magic it weaves!..
Who held my hand to the kindergarten next door?
Who clutched mine tight when we crossed the road?
Who wiped my tears when I lost on love? So many more….
Sorrow and delight, what play is this?
Here she lies all spent and frail.
Now she is me and I am her.
She lives in me like I did once..
It’s my time with her, our closest time !
Time to live our very own time,
Together we taste the bitter- sweet pain.
I cry with her, she cries with me
we cry together, the timeless cry
so dear to us, this torturous love!
She looks at me yet sees me not.
She touches me tenderly, then shrinks away
Who am I? Her son? Her father? Who else?
Not her son , I guess, but more than a son.
Her feverish mind , her restless soul falters and falls…
Faces dance, faces fade, faces brighten, faces melt..
For all she knows, for all she cares..
I am her father, brother, son …all!
O Mother , my hapless mother!
I live but for you!
(My diary! I have no more words for you!)