The Bench at New York

It was a day,
A day which defined my destiny,
A destiny I was waiting for,
And I saw a woman,
A white hair old woman,
Who sat on the bench at New York,
Such elegant looks,
And kind eyes,
But looking very sick.

Sitting next to her,
We started talking,
She was narrating her story,
Of her son,
Stories filled with love,
Talking about him when he was a small boy,
Ending with a helpless look,
But covering with words on how convenient,
And how easy it is to stay in the old age home.

Strangers and yet we shared,
Shared stories from our heart,
Connecting us,
Bonding us instantly,
And we parted with a smile,
A smile that stayed with me,
Months later I learnt about her passing,
And when I see the Bench at New York,
I still see her smiling face.

~The End~ 

An Experimental attempt to put thoughts in writing by Monica Ingudam.


One Comment

  1. joyshree

    the stories are so natural and warming… though some are hearthbreakers. hope to read more of ur wrtings

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