By Piyali Roy Bhowmick

Days after the storm had passed, I visited my village with a trepidation in my heart. The neighborhood looked like a war zone. My favorite big oak tree now leaned on our yard. The porch was ripped apart. The rocking chair on which he used to sit for his post-dinner round of smoke was lying helpless without legs. I got a lump in my throat seeing the roofless greenhouse. He used to grow exotic plants there.

But, the makeshift garden gear rack, which we’d built together, surprisingly remained intact.

“I wish I had not fought with father that night before leaving.”

7 thoughts on “Regrets

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