Mettlesome

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

Just an audible whisper

“The child was crying”.

Currents well up inside me.

A schoolgirl

Offers her seat.

Gran is seated now,

Again singing to herself,

Awed by

Sights beyond the window.

Awed myself,

I look-on

Until it’s time,

For me to de-board.

Linking with Trifecta : Week 108 : Father