Dry leaves crackled beneath my thoughtless feet. The crackle rippled through the stillness, echoing a surprised protest of having been stirred out of the blue and of having been stepped upon, without so much as a "by-your-leave".
Out in the dawn. The dawn I want my father's troubled eyes to see... always.
After every sunset, there is still this beautiful sunrise... this fresh morning air.., the crisp newspaper with stale sensational and distorted news.., the cup of warm tea for those who love it.., the simple sounds and bustle of every day life.
Ramble about, absorb the sights and sounds that you love, let the sights soak in..., and heal..
I still trample on these dry leaves on the unswept garden grounds.., hoping you would come along and join me...
God forbid, but should your eyes ever blur, we shall be the eyes that narrate to you the shade of the sky.., the crisp uniforms of kids going to their new year of school.., bunches and bunches of mangoes big and small, heavily bearing down from the tree..
And if none of us remains, there is still this crackling of the dried leaves.
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