An Unbroken Weave

In sunlight's blaze, her skin is etched and worn,

A silver streak where golden hair was born.

Each careful fold, a sari's timeless pleat,

Holds lessons learned from every bitter wit.

On weathered bench, walking stick in hand,

A misty gaze surveys a promised land.

"Which stop is next?" her silent question sighs,

"Or which new role will life's long stage devise?"

You often see her there, at corners of the lane,

In blouses bright, those try to mask the pain.

Her face, a book, wind and sun have chiselled,

A thousand waiting stories, unconfessed.

A parcel comes, her son's in distant lands,

The watchman asks a child to lend his hands.

"This is for her," he says, "the auntie there,"

A simple plea, a moment's shared despair.

She picks out things the market has to sell,

The vendor holds the phone, he knows her well.

"Just scan this code," he says with patient grace,

And brings the digital world to her space.

The man she thought her partner, firm and true,

Chose a new path, with stories fresh and new.

Now in a ward, where cancer holds its reign,

He waits, and she must face that sudden pain.

They say that news on silent wings can fly,

And settle deep beneath a troubled eye.

She finds her strength, a courage she can find,

And packs his favorite fruit, for him to mind.

A neighbor's child books a cab on her phone,

She sits and waits, in that last hope alone.

No bitter tears, no words that she could say,

Just quiet love, that wouldn't drift away.

This is the tale of one, who stood her ground,

Who would not break, no matter what she found.

Alone on paths where sorrow met her eyes,

But never from herself, disappointed she was.

                      *******