I see in Papa’s eyes
a look that says
this abundance is but
emptiness in disguise.
A buried family
a buried wife
but his children live
or so it is said.
All nine children now old
grandchildren with kids of their own
with nuptials here and birthdays there
but no ritual for the old.
There are fifty members under a roof
fifty rooms where there once were two.
Humble beginnings to grand gatherings
and mass prayers
all in a house full to the brim
with only one room bare.
One room alone where silence reigns
where life is a mere echo
of lingering past remains.
One room out of fifty
where Papa sits
one room out of fifty
where alone my Papa lives.