His hands were speaking the same language since twenty-five years. The wrinkles had flattened, the broom’s handle marks were etched in his palm— on the brim of the facial wrinkles were his due responsibilities. Shaping his son’s career was his duty. The filth he swept away knew the taste of his tears, his sweat. The end was near and he wanted it to be that moment— waiting to be hit by any random vehicle that rushes past, hoping that to unhook him from his accountability, life’s selfish demands. The early morning rays fell subtly on his face, adding a glow to his undone jobs.
The pathway was clean, ready to hold fresh autumn leaves. He went and sat on the porch, leaning onto the pillar, dropping the broom. He waited.
Waited for his dead son, to fulfil his duties of shaping his son’s career who will never show up.
He was brimming with obligations, non-existent ones.