Age is a bastardPosted: July 8, 2011
Dad with his tennis matches and bent shoulders, rare smile
On his face as the ball hits the racket
Him with his afternoon tea, tired
After a long day of work, seated
On the customary chair in the veranda
Sipping slowly, once in a while
Offering a drop or two to Jeeno wagging his bushy tail
Who laps it up eagerly and then awaits more.
Mother with her cleaning, a hand on her hips
A perpetual scowl on her face complaining that we are pigs
With her bony legs that had seen better days
With her shriveled finger tips, shriveled
With years of cooking, years of washing
Years of bringing us up untarnished
Of labor, sweat and toil
Years of tears, years of suffering.
Standing, eyes welling up, with love, with pain
Helpless and knowing
That they are growing old
Wanting to hold them, tell them
that I’l always make their evening cup of tea, that
I’l always oil their joint pains
That I’l always be there for the times
That they stood by, when all the others left.
But I just stood there with the thoughts buzzing by
I just stood there with tears running dry.