Fading

My parents are fading. As did theirs. My father’s unyielding certitude has been momentarily displaced by bewilderment, betraying a loss of relevance in a new world order. Their eyes brim as they look at me through the glass of the train carriage. As do mine. I took the same train forty years ago to be free of a world that restrained, that suffocated. I open the door and alight, to touch their feet out of respect. I silently promise to return more frequently. Though home is now six thousand miles away. Old grievances have become butter in a hot pan.