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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required As one grows old, when evening approaches, memories too lengthen like shadows. Now I remember more often my parents wondering how much sweat and toil they had shed to make their children comfortable, how much love they lavished and what sacrifices they endured. A snapshot of my father who was a teacher by profession but more of an artist at heart. Like a warm breath of air My Dad hovers in my memory No Superman in others' eyes. A meek soul, but for me a true legend. He was a jack of all trades. He epitomized love and gentleness. Hard-working and committed to his family, He was not one to squander his time. He toiled day in and out To feed those whom he loved and sired What was he? A teacher, a farmer, or an artist? I cannot say precisely... All I can say; He was each of these, Rolled into one. I don’t think there was anyone like him around. He was my English teacher at school, And how proud I am of all that he taught me. On holidays I saw him, Shut in the loft with a brush in hand. His fingers moved over the canvas The steaming tea by his side Untouched and going cold as ice. Unmindful of everything around, He sat by the easel in the attic Focused only on the strokes that fell. When a distinct image shoots out, As the moon from behind clouds, A wave of satisfaction would gleam Across his face, His frantic nerves at once hushed, Bearing the look of one, Who, in an instant, had conquered kingdoms! He would view it from different angles. Never would seek anyone’s opinion, But gloating if he saw, Our admiring eyes fell on it. He was an avid reader too And a skilled photographer The black and white photos He caught in his camera still adorns our walls Being artistically inclined, He lived more in the world of art. But gradually things changed. To his fright, he found his hands shaky And the lines on the canvas, Going tremulous and disjointed. Couldn’t hold a brush! The zealous man grew numb, As the curtain of years fell on him! On diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease His world abruptly lost its sheen. He saw the disease weeding Its way into his life Suddenly, grown old, He lost interest in everything. We saw him sitting in his armchair So immobile, for hours on end His eyes stretched to a far horizon We displayed before him, Paintings once born of his imagination, To see if his world would brighten, And it worked! Recently, in one of my dreams, I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo, To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect In his lifetime!
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