Volte-face
Underneath his wrinkled skin ran blood pumped
from a heart that had been young all along. He had ten days yearning
for his daughter to forgive him for all the harm his age had done.
Precious glassware had slipped off his shaky hands. His uncontrollable
bowels had wiped out all those years of love. As she sat before him,
his eyes promised to wait for her to call him back home, for senility
home was no place for him.
She held his hands and said, “Pa, you can come
home, but you need to adjust with Hari.” The very word ‘Hari’ awoke in
him those strange echoes his old brain refused to forget. “Your father
is a liability.”
As he turned back and looked at the pristine
building which stood proud like a new bottle with old wine, he embraced
the truth. “This is where I belong,” he said.
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