The Return

For many years it happened time and again, without change - even the workers would notice it, throwing a knowing glance at each other, but never saying a word.  Not even the strain of years of hard work and the slowing of movement that come with age, made a difference: the flicker of hope that shone in the farmers' eyes as looked up every time a vehicle passed on the dirt-road in the distance.

As the sun burnt harshly overhead, and the lines around his ever-searching eyes deepened, that flicker of hope never changed, never faltered.

When the strength to work had left his weary body, the farmer would sit on the porch of the stately farmhouse, from where the workers were ever aware of his gaze on them - and on the road.  Over the years they, too, have come to pause at the sound of a passing vehicle, quickly looking up at the road, and then quickly at the farmer, before they continued with whatever labour was to be done.  At times the farmer would rise quickly, walk to the steps of the porch, and shielding his eyes against the sun, stare into the distance, only to return to his chair once the vehicle had disappeared into the distance.

Over the following years, very little changed.  The workers didn't care to look up any more.  Why would they?  Nothing ever happened.  But something in the farmer also changed.  He didn't care to notice the workers any more.  He only stared at the distant road, as if he knew his days of waiting are running out, as his life was coming to an end, and he needed every bit of strength he had left in him to keep his hopes and his gaze on that long road that stretched into the distance....

It was late one afternoon, when they heard it.  Startled, they didn't know where to look first.  They realised that the old farmer was running, but at first they couldn't see why.  Then the first one saw it, and pointed to the gate.  The others saw it too, and dropped their tools in wonder and amazement:  There, coming through the gate, was a lonely, bent figure, carrying only the burden of a very long, lonely road he had left behind.  The old farmer never stopped running, calling, crying, till at last he reached the lonely figure.

Then, all they could see from that distance, was the lonely figure disappearing in the overwhelming embrace of the old, happy farmer, and all they could hear was the cry of joy for years of waiting that had, at last, come to an end.