#Story-Mentor: I walked alone...

Standing at the edge of the cliff I looked over the water as the crimson sun set into the Arabian Sea.

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I spent the best years of my life toiling to make their life better than my own. The sky the colour of the blood in my veins; the salty air, the sweat of my brow and the cliff, the strength of my back. This moment in time was almost poetic, everything which made up my life, was captured in these last few minutes.

But, now I was old. Too old to provide for them, too weak to be of any use, neglected. They did their duty by paying for my old age home, or so they believed. Little do they realise that it isn’t the medicine given by the nurse which keeps me alive, it is the laughter of my grandchildren. Even the subdued laughter I hear once a week on the phone is sweeter than those bitter pills I have to pop.

Could I really blame my children? They didn’t realise that you ‘don’t add days to life, but life to days’. I had given them the best education I could afford. They had the nicest toys to play with; the best of food, everything they needed was available on a silver platter. There was only one thing they didn’t have, parents. A mother who left far too early and I only ever managed being a weekend dad. I don’t blame them; they never knew what it was to have a family.

The endless sea brought back all the memories which I had carefully locked away. Memories which more often than not, were stitched together away from home. The meetings, the travelling, the business deals, not enough of singing, dancing and playing with the kids.

Success they say is relative, the more successful you are, the more relatives you have! I enjoyed being successful, which was only topped by seeing my relatives begging and scraping to make ends meet. There is the taste of salt on my lips, it isn’t the sea, it is my unwept tears. Those ‘unsuccessful’ relatives today have a family they call their own, maybe they have been successful all along, not me.

The village bell rings 4 times, it is time for tea in the desolate place that I am forced to call home. I hope they will forgive me for not being there, my children during their childhood and the staff at ‘home’.

I jump…

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This story was in response to the assignment by @michelle.gent for the #story-mentor group. You can read about the assignment here.. If you would like to see more posts from people in this group, use the #story-mentor tag