The colours of desolation shine through the crevices
Of the old couple’s face
Waiting every day for the elusive footfall of their son
Relentlessly following his dreams in a far- off land.
They get up at night, shuddering.
Muttering, what if Death comes calling,
And their only son is not around?
Sunny, they called him, he was that bright.
Dismay, rage, outrage, dread
Gut wrenching, toe curling anger,
Teeth –gnashing frustration.
Why is he so callous – this only son of theirs?
Choking grip of a scary darkness, of scary nightmares.
And the night is over, at last!
To begin again at the crack of dawn.
Will he come? Will he call?
Just one single call?
Maybe he will give them a surprise.
Suddenly spring from behind and startle them
Like he did in those happy days?
Maybe …..ah, the phone rings…..
Is it that long-awaited call?
On arthritic feet, the octogenarians stumble
Tumble towards the phone,
Gnarled fingers supporting their backs
Only to halt in their tracks,
As the phone stops ringing
On the third ring.
SEPT/OCT 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
An academician, essayist-novelist -poet, I have an insane passion to write about everything under the sun or the moon! Some of my books like Ballad of Bapu: [a poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi] and Where are the lilacs? [a collection of 111 peace poems] have been internationally acclaimed. Flights from my terrace is my ebook of 58 essays on Smashwords .