On the 70th anniversary of the partition of the Indian sub-continent:
He must have known that he was going.
I certainly knew.
A body slowly shutting down,
His options: eating or breathing
He couldn't do both.
Food and drink spatter his lungs.
His voice – a distorted hoarse whisper
Kicking sense into the long grass.
I wait for the hard-fought words
That would touch my core,
Mark this moment.
Words of love and paternal pride
Words of wisdom
For the next generation.
He calls for pen and paper.
For a long while, he writes.
But I see his pen is moving on the spot
Deeper into a dark hole.
I lift his hand and we start again.
I move his hand along.
India and Pakistan will never own
I feel bereft.