My tired old eyes search for my son.

As I sit at the railway station sipping my tea,

One hand wraps the tea glass, the other a piece of paper

In which he had scribbled his number in a hurry.

He is always so busy, always running, and always full of vigour.

Every time I call, I end up disturbing him, at his meetings, at his work, when he is out with friends.

But this time, he told me he was coming home.

As I sit at the railway station, I remind myself to buy Jalebies on the way back.

He loves them, my son.

I check my watch; it is past the time he promised,

Should I call him or should I wait?

I can see the clouds getting darker, a storm is about to break.

An untimely one I tell myself, for this time of the year.

I remember the times he would come drenched in rain, slopping all over the floor

I remember how I used to scold him, then hug him from the fear that

He would get sick, my son.

A drop or two falls to remind me I must find a shed before I get too wet.

I hurry to a nearby tree, a big burly one, sure enough to protect me from the rain.

The small deserted station, rambles as the storm unleashes its fury.

I wait there, under the tree, waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for my son to arrive.

******

The following day, a local newspaper reports:

An old lady of sixty and five, found dead under a tree,

A lightning had struck, causing the death of the tree, a cat and the old lady,

Setting them free.

People found a number clutched in her hand.

When contacted, the voice said, he was too busy in a meeting,

Could they call back around three?