The summer of 1978

It was..the summer of 1978


He took a broom
And wiped the floor
Looked at the kitchen
And swiped it once more

The telephone had rung-
Some Thursday night
Voices from offshore beamed
“I’m coming Pa”

Some leaves had fallen
On the pathway pristine
He picked up the broom and swept it clean

The bed was made up for the 100 th time
White and serene.
Two pillows lay side by side
Smug and clean

He paced the runway
Knowing not whom to expect
The son had grown
In photographs suspect

Suddenly emerged a young man anew
Just like a cocoon
With freshly, speckled dew
They shook hand like elders
And sat in a taxi,
“Do I know you?”
The silences screamed-

The bag in the centre..somehow seemed insurmountable
To fingers that itched to crawl over in welcoming
A son, apparently lost

Bathed and clean,
He swung into action
“Pa I shall be late, with friends I’m having luncheon”

Take a torch, a wrinkled hand offered
The lights are dim, and the roads are bad
The lad and his shoes
Stopped in their tracks
“Im 28, not 58, dad”

© 2012 Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury