Whispering Thoughts

I turn around. Wrinkled face, Back bent, Short baby steps And knitted scarf on her head. Gran! Instinctively, As if she hears me. She looks up. I am disappointed, Hold back my tears, And Busy myself on mobile. Before stealing a look at her again. Somebody spares a seat for her. She hesitates, Like Her eyes seeking permission From all of us standing, Like Apologizing, For being favored. I steal a look again, Seated, Singing to herself perhaps, Looking out of window, Like a young tiddler, Awed by the Whole metro-paraphernalia. And then The bus rings with His insistent cries Growing louder by the minute. The crowd encouraged His harried father To take the seat. I looked back At the commotion, Only to see that Gran Had spared her seat For the father-son duo And joined the Standing milieu. Proudly. She stood Close enough That I could breathe Her grimed shawl. She turned to me, Her voice J...