On The Roof

My father walked on the roof at night alone. He used to come to his son’s home seeking summer’s relief from his nine month’s home alone at the Himalayas foothill. But he couldn’t leave the chill out. His seven decades of mind defied his frail frame as he hugged the plain’s winter without a woolen painting summer on my roof. Rarely I would be with him but when he came down he would speak animatedly the constellations he had seen the milky way about the quarreling owls. Wish I were there with him all his nights on the roof making four wandering eyes looking at constellations marveling at the milky way. Now on some winter nights I go to the roof alone without my son remember father my heart aching in the thought One day my son too would come Alone