Four years later, you ran behind me,
strong brown hand braced on the back of the bike.
Then, heart in your throat, letting me go.
At fourteen you sent me to private school,
bolstering, unknowingly, a seedling independence.
Then you watched, silently proud, as I boarded a plane for college.
And, missing you, I remember a moment.
A full decade past, the blue airmail letter arrived to tell you
your father, half a world away, had died.
Your tears then foretold my own,
anticipating a moment still far away, inevitably close.
When I, half a country away, will receive that call.
The gods live forever.
Why should heroes have to die?
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
November 23, 1992