We cannot be sure if we’ll meet again -who can know beforehand which one is final?
and both of us have learnt to say this farewell
many times over, without the groundswell
of emotions, dramatic formats of love overdone;
her smile’s still radiant, eye-sockets hooded with pain,
her voice rock-steady without a tremble,
“It’s done me no end good, my dear. When
do you come back?” My voice too is strangely even,
“Maybe next year? I really can’t tell.”
I leave without looking back, and she remains
unyielding in her chair by the window as usual.
The cab-driver knows from my face the terminal
and drives me straight there where they end and begin.
Shared at dVerse where the prompt today is the art of letting go.