For tiredness lies
On my lids
My body like a
Broken goblet
The Earth can feel
No more my feet

“So I must come home, dear Lord,” was the hoarse plea from the lips of the old woman, lying in a recliner on the patio.
The middle-aged nurse aid sitting close by reading the newspaper inquired of the old woman,
“What is it, Sharda?”

She did not answer, looking up at the clear blue sky, her eyes not so dim, her hearing still fine. She could see the lovely flowers bloom and hear the sweet songs of the birds in her garden, but her love and passion for nature were slowly fading away.
How does one continue to embrace life when the body has become aged and feeble, memory sometimes floating into nothingness, when you need a young, strong hand to hold and there was none?

“How did this happen?” she asked herself, tears misting in her eyes, “Why did this happen?”
The loneliness was a deep ache in her heart, craving for the children she loved and missed so much just to hear their voices. But they were gone, now matured adults pursuing careers and sharing their lives with new loves and interests.

The mother now lived alone in the home where they had shared a beautiful family life. She had moulded and guided them, her hard work and sacrifices laying a foundation for the successes they had achieved in their lives. But after reaching great heights in the business world, their rich lifestyles made them forget where they came from, and for the aged mother, there was no time.
A lone tear trickled down her wrinkled face, a face still beautiful never mind her age and she lifted a trembling hand to wipe it. A hand that was once strong, that held her children’s small ones every step of the way.

A wry smile crossed her face and a faraway look shone in her eyes as her thoughts took her back to a time when she was a young woman. She was so full of life, like a butterfly with amazing colours and a simple, little home filled with love, then her father gave her hand in marriage to a rice farmer’s son; a new life as a bride and later, a young mother. Paths she had walked paved with love, compassion, tears and pain, episodes of her life written on the leaves of time.

Then one day, fourteen years later, when she could have borne no more of her husband’s arrogance and abusive behaviour towards her, she had walked away from her matrimonial home with her four children into the throes of an unknown world.
She had worked long hours every day to build a nice little home with comfort for them and today, instead of holding her hand, like she had held theirs, they turned their backs, leaving her alone.
A choked sob escaped her lips and once again she whispered, “It’s time for me to come home, dear Lord, there’s nothing left here.”

The nurse aid got up and took her hand, urging her gently, “Come on, Sharda, it’s time for your meal and medication.”
She sighed and looking up at the nurse. She inquired, puzzled, “Who are you?”
“I’m Jeanette,” the woman answered patiently, as she assisted her to her feet, “Your nurse aid.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed softly, a momentary lapse in her memory.
The kind woman had been with her for the past three years, financed by the children to provide care and companionship for they hardly found any time in their daily schedules to spend with their mother.

That night as she laid in bed, she looked at the painting on the wall facing her and a smile touched her lips, lessening the pain in her heart. It was the picture of three children, her father working in the garden and her mother standing not far off with a bucket of fresh vegetables on her arm, smiling warmly as she watched her children.
A portrait that captured a simple life and a beautiful family.

“You have left so long ago, mother,” she said in a weak voice, “I can’t remember much for now I have grown too old.”
The brother and sister playing with her had also left, their names now written on tombstones whilst she, the youngest, waited still alone.
“Whisper my name, mother,” she said, “And I shall come, so we can be together again.”
The days went by, and the old lady grew weaker, life’s journey slowly coming to an end.
Then one morning, as she sat on the patio, feeling the cool breeze on her face and watching the slight drizzle, the kiss of the raindrops on the plants in her garden, she heard a voice call softly,
“Sharda.”

A soft cry escaped her lips and she whispered, “Mother.”
From within the light shadows in the garden, she saw them walked forward, her beloved family, her mother stretching her arms out to her,
“Come, my child, it’s time.”

She would leave the world now, leaving her legacy, never mind her children had left her. One day maybe, they would remember her unconditional love. She left a body aged by time, worn and broken from years of hard work and struggles. Now she was free, once again, like a butterfly as she reunited with her family.
“We have been waiting for you, Sharda,” they said, embracing her.

No more she was of this earthly life but her soul was there that day as they bid her farewell and she saw the old woman whom she had been, lying in eternal sleep, her four children sitting around her in silent grief.

They came when she was gone, too late for regrets, too late for tears, for she could not hear their voices nor feel the touch of their hands.
The young ones there did not know her, and she wondered, “Will anyone carry on my legacy?”
A pretty little girl with curly locks, standing a little way off walked up to where she laid and looking at her for a long moment, she said in a sweet childish voice, “Grandma.”
Sharda smiled, for all was not lost.