We walked together, my father and me
A feather
from nowhere flew in front of us
With an
expression of deep pleasure
For the
feather to rest, my father held his palms together
He said he knew the quill
well, long before I was born.
It was the
belonging of a bird who lives many stories
And someday
disappears to return to the child who will be to follow.
This bird is
mine and the feather carries memories
I was intrigued at the mention of memories and immediately requested
What else
does the feather say?
As he read the feather and the message was as
follows
There is a decoration
about which we are to be proud
The owner was unpretentious and kept the matter in humble mention
He lived a
mundane life with the common success and errors in his mind
He assured
his father was never disrespected
Because to the common he was reputed
As years
passed the little piece of metal was safely kept away into a common mans chest
I was shown this piece when I was a child
and often had
a feeling of pride
With time I
too lost the thought
to some part
of my pleasant memory.
In the
meantime the tinker lay in the darkness of the chest quietly
So dark it
was that a generation passed by
Lonely and
untouched it thought it was lost to the abysmal depth of the timeless
And look now
this feather has reminded me of the forgotten medal.
They who
forgot to value, forgot it even existed
And quietly
we walked along
I could feel
my father feel his begetter
On inquiry I
was able to retrieve the medal from an aunt who loved me.
She was prompt
to give it to me as a family memoire
When I showed
my father his lost inheritance
there was a
face flushed with memories
But once I
saw the eyes of a son
the pleasure
of being identified through his father
Nearly a
century later the tinker found its value
as a memory
keeper to our family
And with
silent pride in the heavens he heard – we love you father.
As we walked
the stretch talking about the medal
My attention
was drawn off the feather
I realized
that it had disappeared and my father’s hand was by
his side following the swing of his stride.
To my
surprise he reassured that the feather will come back at another time
When I shall
walk the stretch with my son
to remind me of something I will have
forgotten
and hence is
preserved the link – not in the object with the memory
but the bird
who sheds a feather in its flight
