At the Dead End

At the dead-end of life ferry Our mother called on us My brothers, One elder and the other younger, and me For partition of what we had inherited, our father had left. That he met his fatal end of cardiac arrest When just his hair had started graying- The first clarion that he is turning old. Drawing lines in each building In each piece of land Sharing utensils and furniture Even each souvenir of our father was easy Except when the question that came of The bungalow of the mother, The one most expensive and epitome of our father’s love She kept it out of our reach. But to my surprise The next day my wife started talking judicious- How could mother stay alone in the bungalow With mere servants that my parents had appointed? We are her wards And all right she reserves To be cared. That in the usual evening family meeting My sibling also released What from their spouses They had sensed. To her adversity in the dinner She had disclosed in evening To all grandchildren The secret of inheritance- ‘It is reserved for one, serving, Providing utmost care at my dead-end’.