Days
The sun is splashing on the thick carpet, his shadow forming a stooped presence in the quiet morning. His eyes are closed, the book in his lap laying listlessly, lagging fingers frigid over the words. He opens his eyes and sighs gently.
He doesn’t know I am watching.
I remember him there. On the dusty paths of his motherland. My motherland. He would don a shirt, swiftly squeezing the buttons into the holes. He would peek into the mirror on the iron cabinet, run a little brown comb through his silver hair without smiling, and slip it in his breast pocket. He would touch the murti of the Lord that hung above the door and walk. The doctor was always there. Always waiting. His friend. For years. They would sit for two hours, together discussing whatever it was men discussed. They would laugh. And sip tea from rakabis. Lunch hour and he would walk back home. Eating, slowly, enjoying, eyes showing what his smile wouldn’t. At four he would wash his face, the water drops running, running down his ridged cheeks. The comb did its job again. He would walk. Temple this time. And sat in the office, counting, squeezing numbers and counting again. He would love the numbers. And the dinner hour would call him back. As would night. And his sleep.
He never knew I was watching.
The opened eyes trace the ceiling, in thoughts too shallow to sink into.
“You can’t work.”
“But I want to.”
“Look, it’s not like that here.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you just sit and sing praises of the Lord?”
“For how long? How long can I praise the Lord?”
“You’re retired. No one will hire you here anymore. You know that.”
“But they offered over there.”
“It’s too far. You can’t work!”
I watch him. Watch him everyday. Watch him play the conversation over and over again. Son versus father. Over and over.
“Grandfather?”
He looks over. Looks at me with the tiredness of nothing.
“Tell me child, will your father listen to you?”
“Why Grandfather?”
“Can you convince him?”
He looks away. Because he knows the answer.
I watch him, whispering a soft aubade:
Howlong?
Howlong?
Howlong?
I don’t really know what to say about this one except that it’s a really excellent piece of writing that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. Thanks for sharing.
Comment by Justin — January 19, 2007 @ 12:28 am
Yes my dear, there is something beautiful about this, something like memory–that always hovers near Grandfathers,–and something like a kindred sigh. I thank you also.
Comment by TigerlilyIndiana — January 23, 2007 @ 1:23 pm