Wailing under the vast sky
her tears formed little pools
with a sinking heart, her eyes fixed on the door
she is waiting for the apple of her eyes
her only son, who is now no more!
“He will come, he is running late.”
She has spread the dastarkwaan with lunch
waiting for the door to creak
she talks of how he would hide at lunch
seeing the haakh, he so disliked
and when she made him tomato soup
how gaily he would hug her.
The brazen wind passed by
she gathered the clothes she had laid
pressing a deep blue tee shirt to her bossom
“It’s his favorite one”, she said.
I turn away with tearful eyes
while she assures me that he will come.
She takes me by hand into his room
scattered on the floor are his toys
a cricket bat, a football, miniature action figures,
books, pens, color pencils, tennis balls,
everything that you would find
in an 11 year old’s room.
The sun has set, the night has come
she is worried by the darkness,
she sets to arrange his school bag
“He will be hungry and tired.”
She talks of how crazy he drove her
with this and that, again and again.
“He is such a naughty child.”
Then she remembers that horrendous day
of terrifying cries and stone peltings.
He had just gone out, she ran to the door
too late; too soon he had met his fate
she saw her husband ghost faced
carrying her little one in his arms
soaked in blood with closed eyes
she cries and what a cry that was
the earth shivered on the mother’s plight.
She would not separate him from her bossom
she kissed him, loved him, hugged him tight
she went mad on her son’s sight
rubbing his blood all over her face
she wept and cried for endless nights.
Every day she sits alone under the sky
her aching heart, her tearful eyes
wooing him to come back
endless promises on her part
new bats, new games, his favorite soup
choclates, more playing time, more eidi
talking endlessly of her love
to the little grave in her courtyard.