Posted by: Pucadyil | February 3, 2010

Grace

Grace’s child, my wife, stands at the door
waiting to collect the tax for my passage.
The transaction , now done a countless time
still makes the tired heart beat a little fast.
Our marriage was a a quirk of fate
a chance meeting of our fathers, old friends
were we made for each other, I do not know
we met as strangers and remained thus for long

my wind-swept hair and brown shirt
did not impress you, you confessed later
I thought you were but a child
and wanted you to grow and become my age
The passing years have slowly transformed
the compact made in church to one deeper
of trust, compassion and give and take
witnessed only by time and memories

the middle class struggles to get on with life
interspersed with transitions and acquisitions
children bringing joy and sometimes despair
and all that baggage that makes up one’s life
Age has not withered the romance
of stolen caresses and a touch in stealth.
evening chats sitting on the swing
tea, sparse of body, nevertheless warm

Children long since married and gone their way;
the house longs for their presence and laughter in vain.
time’s passage has not dimmed the memories
of youthful pranks and occasional cries
The greatest mystery in life, you say
is of how families emerge from void,
from people meeting as strangers one day
and becoming friends and with time, lovers

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