Father Doesn’t Cry…

Mother used to say…
It must be true…

Just like before,
Father wakes up,
Goes to work,
Returns late at night,
And hands over a parcel of sweets.

Sitting on the verandah,
He talks about something
With Mother.

Whenever they sat together,
Mother would tell him
Their love story—

By that paddy field ridge,
On the three o’clock bus,
At the temple…

Whenever Mother recounted
Those moments they had shared,
Father’s face would light up
With a smile.

Mother would take out
The love letters from the memory box
And read them aloud to Father.

Ever since Mother left,
Father has changed completely.

He has stopped talking,
Stopped smiling.

Yet Father still goes
To that paddy field ridge…
Still waits for the three o’clock bus…

And when someone asks
Where he has been,
He mutters, “Didn’t you see Mother?”
Then turns away
And walks back.

Every now and then,
He opens that old memory box
And gazes at what remains
Of their love.

Every day, I see
Father sitting on the verandah,
Staring into the darkness,
Sighing deeply.

Every now and then,
He hears a familiar call.

And whenever that happens,
I see his eyes well up with tears.

Perhaps, thinking that Mother might see him,
He quickly wipes them away.

Father doesn’t cry…
Mother used to say.