The Old Woman And Her Sun

On her face many a wrinkle and crease
She sat splurging on her memories
Of Joy, her son
While the sullen sun skulked behind a cover
Of clouds, dark .
Ah those leisurely jaunts
Those happy taunts
When the air was crisp
And like her toddler , did happily lisp
laughter and promise.
Ah it was bliss
When she held his tiny hand
At the school bus stand
Alas, now he was in a foreign land.

In her chair she sat , on her face a sad frown
Bending down
To pick up the shards of her dream.
A rose dismantled
Shattered and shredded .
To her memories she sat shackled
On the lawn dew -feckled.
Wistfully recalling the four year old
His hair in golden ringlets cascading over his shoulders
Panicky that he would trip over the boulders.
The waves surfed in style
Trying to beguile
A fond mother’s heart
Whose four year old
With his crowning glory of gold
Was wearing a stunning red dress.

With a shuddering sigh, she recalled that goodbye.
Was it the power of a mother’s sigh
That joy seemed to be nigh
That the sun appeared in a stunning red dress
The shards of dreary clouds out to impress ?
In a burst of generosity
It lent them some silver linings
And bursting with compassion
On her creased forehead it planted a kiss
Filling her with some bliss .
Ah, for the woman old, this was gold .
The sun had returned
But in her fond heart the fire still burned.
And burned.

8 thoughts on “The Old Woman And Her Sun

  1. Lopa Banerjee

    Such an endearing, lovingly knit tapestry of a mother’s emotions, unadulterated and ever-flowing in memories and pain only a mother can internalize and embrace.

    Love and hugs,
    Lopa.

    Reply

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