The cable car rocked from left to right
as we moved away from the station.
Whispering squeaks broke the silence with
every gust of wind. Below us, the World.

Water in the rivers trying desperately
to escape, reaching for the misty horizon.
Trees in clusters grasping for the clouds.
Green trees stand by their mothers and fathers.

The blazing sun was cold, my lips chapped,
my face numb, stomach churning.
Wind against my face made me squint,
hold my mothers hand harder.

I look up, and her face reminds me of the
eight years that had passed. Silky gray hair,
smooth wrinkles, still pearly white teeth.
A soft amiable smile, but her eyes held

back tears like a dam at high tide.
I close my eyes . . .
He lay there motionless, helpless. I could
do nothing, nobody could. It was his time,

and he had to go. His spirit filled the room,
and as he left, he whispered “I love you” and
flew away. I kneeled down next to him
and looked at him smile, held his gelid hands.

The cable car jerked as it switched gears.
My eyes, now open like those of an owl,
bear a single tear that feeds the rivers and
tributaries below. Your father loved this place.

Kishorekumar Pardasani
November 2000