Sorrow

[image from google]

To understand a swan,

my son said,

you have to learn

how to cry.

Today

I understood

what that means.

She looks

like a swan,

with her slim,

graceful neck,

and her long

silver hair.

And swans

mate for life,

it is said.

She and her husband

were just kids

when they married

in India,

an arranged

marriage,

as was the custom,

mated for life,

as was the way.

Children

did not come,

and her heart

was born to

take care,

so he received

all her caring.

They came to Canada

as young marrieds,

made a new life,

bought a big house,

shared all the days.

When he grew old,

and ill,

she cared for him

as tenderly

as a babe,

though she

could

barely hobble

on her walker,

and each movement

brought pain.

And now

he has died.

The house feels

too big,

so silent

and empty,

the tap, tap,

tapping

of her walker

down the hall

the only sound,

a lonely sound,

the gong of the

wall clock

at intervals

marking the hours.

Bravely,

because she must,

she prepares

an early supper,

as she has

every afternoon

for all these years:

but one potato, not two,

two chapatis, not four,

her fingers flying

swiftly as a girl's

through the familiar

motions,

flipping the chapatis,

while tears roll

silently

down her cheeks.

I've done

what I could do,

and leave her there,

to her

solitary supper,

her too-silent house,

as she waits

for the

hours and days

to pass,

for it to be

her turn

to follow him

Home.