it was the 201st day of 1998
the tutor, on a schedule walked in
and crumbled suddenly uncontained
“no more classes Sir, no more complains”
he encased his notebook close to his skin
how come, what and why
multitude of questions outpour, “why oh why”, he asks
bewildered, he wears a shocked mask
he ponders, he squints, trying to not openly cry
doubtfully delivering a nod, his eyes turn towards
the groping father putting his tall boy to rest
with pieces of his heart, weaving memories into wreaths
stumbling, the tutor tries a word, instead gasps escape his chords
he turns around , then halts back and pauses
places gingerly the notebook on a side shelf
scribbles with a shaking hand, makes a mess
with a brief glance, he absorbs the air and its bruises
curious, I linger to take a teary peak
scrawled I see , “Be a man buddy, being dead is a cowardly trick”
words that chafe, incinerate into every pore of me
slouching within, I clench my fists into my knees
you, since emerged, in every cosmic breath
your debtless soul, is the tapestry of our strength
we sturdily toil through in our fragile caravans
you, endowed us enough joy to last a life span
the tutor came back the next day, and for many days
we talked about your stories, he said they were ours anyways
NaPoWriMo 2018
Pieces of fathers broken heart often melt and come out of his eyes
Old body and weakened mind remained shattered and shaken for long hours remenbering vividly the visit of the tutor the next day
Papa( Sad father of his lost tall boy)
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