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’.

Copyright © Gobinda Sahoo | Year Posted 2015

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