Day 2: 2nd April 2015 NAPOWRIMO
My tired old eyes search for my son.
As I sit at the railway station sipping my tea,
One hand wraps the tea glass, the other a piece of paper
In which he had scribbled his number in a hurry.
He is always so busy, always running, and always full of vigour.
Every time I call, I end up disturbing him, at his meetings, at his work, when he is out with friends.
But this time, he told me he was coming home.
As I sit at the railway station, I remind myself to buy Jalebies on the way back.
He loves them, my son.
I check my watch; it is past the time he promised,
Should I call him or should I wait?
I can see the clouds getting darker, a storm is about to break.
An untimely one I tell myself, for this time of the year.
I remember the times he would come drenched in rain, slopping all over the floor
I remember how I used to scold him, then hug him from the fear that
He would get sick, my son.
A drop or two falls to remind me I must find a shed before I get too wet.
I hurry to a nearby tree, a big burly one, sure enough to protect me from the rain.
The small deserted station, rambles as the storm unleashes its fury.
I wait there, under the tree, waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for my son to arrive.
The following day, a local newspaper reports:
An old lady of sixty and five, found dead under a tree,
A lightning had struck, causing the death of the tree, a cat and the old lady,
Setting them free.
People found a number clutched in her hand.
When contacted, the voice said, he was too busy in a meeting,
Could they call back around three?