Soul Dead
I do not know
Whose excitement was the greater
My dad’s or mine
As we boarded the bus
To a long-lost dream
Of verdant fields
Rich with the fruit of native soil
Of crystal clear streams
Where laughing youth
Was spent in carefree
Abandonment.
My dad’s eyes gleamed
As they spoke of glowing hearths
Clustered around with pots and pans
With music of bubbling broth
And the sweet smell
Of meat
As the fat simmered and sizzled
Stirring the rumbles
Of those gathered around
Listening to great grandma tales.
Sweet were his words
As scenes of pastoral joy
Rolled off his tongue
With vividness imbued
With longing
For years gone past
These two score and ten.
Come, lad, he said
With wistful smile
And a soft ache in his heart
You’ll meet ole Gran
And Uncles and Aunts
And Cousins in droves.
The bus droned through the night
And at crack of dawn
We alighted
At a ramshackle stand
With nary a soul
But a lone
Wizened man
Who had seen better times.
With a quaver of despair
My dad fearfully asked
Of such-and-such
Great clans once there
Of streets and of temples
Of markets and yards
Of fields and their tillers
Only to be met with
Stony silent stare.
There was a rise in the wind
As dust-devils danced
The torpor was mounting
Till the man finally spake
The families you seek
Have moved on
To the beyond
Ten years or so
There was a quake and a storm
Now there only be ghosts.
Now we awaited
The bus
To take us back home
Saddened son
And a ghost of a dad.
~19 Jul 2016~
Semi-fictional
Contest: Long lost family
Copyright © Karam Misra | Year Posted 2016
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