'My Father' Poem by Pushpinder Kaur

My Father

Looking at my hand…
every time, I offered my support,
my Father looked at it…
scrutinisingly-
with a bit of question,
a bit of doubt, and a lot of faith…
expressed through his silent gaze,
that lasted a few seconds.

My Father, whose hand
has been a rock of strength, support and guidance for me,
a symbol of righteousness, uprightness and morality-
today, needs an extended hand…
to help him take his stand.

My Father, who walked three miles
every day of his life
following every single dawn-
the drizzle greeting him,
out on his morning spree with the umbrella in hand...
Each, early dog on the road…
clearing the path for him,
as did every cyclist, that rode,
carrying his early burdens before him.

Talking to the breezing winds, the early morning sun's rays…
leaving his footprints on many a dewy, grassy ways,
my Father, would be out on his morning walk, while the world
still tossed and turned, cosily curled.

Never could I foresee a time, when
such a man, who, my mother called, 'a racing steed', would need be chaperoned,
of course, all to his dislike and distress.

Not every hand does he welcome,
but mine…
he gazes at, as perhaps the small hand that it once was.
If memories hold a treasure for me
so must they hold for him-
the soothing shoulder that put my baby head to sleep,
today, when he is 92, makes my heart gasp and weep.

'Age has its ways', he always says,
yet, with a sparkling twinkle in his eye, and
a loud ripple in his laughter,
reminiscent of all his laughter, heard in my childhood,
with the shade of difference though…
time holds nothing but itself, and does not for ever go.

Pushpinder Kaur: 5.9.14