The Haiku Pedlar

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck.." 

The young woman sang sweetly as she made her way through the bustling Central Park, on a sunny spring day. Other hawkers with their hot dogs, peanuts and popcorn stands were busy carrying out a brisk business. The ground lay blanketed with pale pink flowers and every waft of breeze brought with it yet another shower of soft, feathery petals. 

Gina sat alone on a bench in a little puddle of crisp sunshine, absent-mindedly nibbling on Planters' roasted sunflower seeds. Lining the east side of the Reservoir, for several hundred yards, cherry blossoms scattered their ethereal hue of pink and purple. 

Exactly twelve years had passed since that ominous phone call in the middle of the night. It was her older sister. "Dad is no more, Gina", a quiet contained voice had said from the other side of the static. Twelve years, and yet, she had not gotten used to his not 'being there', not finding his neatly-penned letters, brimming with infinite care,  in the mailbox, not hearing the smile in his voice when they spoke over the phone, not seeing him at the airport, waving at them, when they went home for holidays... 

Feed your soul,

haiku, a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck...

The source of the song was surely headed her way. And, as its implications dawned on her, shaking off the onrush of dysphoria, she began to warm up to the idea of buying a haiku to commemorate her dad's life.  "Yes, it would be perfect," she told herself, remembering his love for poetry.  

 "I'd like to  buy one", she muttered  to the woman, whose dark brown hair framed a face which seemed to hold the universe, and a lazy eye. 

"I am glad you do. I think it's a perfect day for a haiku. By the way, name is Krystabella," saying she pulled out a spiralled journal from her bag, tore a page, and began scribbling:

"Cherry blossoms sing,

The robin  listens, silent

 melodies  weave magic

And, handing the paper to Gina, off she went...

"Feed your soul..."

Gina dashed after her, another dollar bill waving in her hand, shouting, " I'd like to buy one more, please...".

Krystabella smiled, ripping yet another page off her journal, and wrote:

Scatter far the seeds,

they've returned from a long

journey: these tired birds

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I want to do." And, Gina took fistful of the sunflower seeds from the Planters' packet, dispersing them as far as she could. Within minutes she heard them: the  cackle and honking of a whole gaggle of geese, as they landed to feast on the seeds. She watched them, trapped in a bubble of enchantment, freed fleetingly from the burden of a daughter's sorrow.

On returning to the bench, where she sat a while ago, she found a small pebble resting on yet another scribbled-upon paper:

what shall 'I' become

when this body is gone? 

a cherry blossom

on its way to Fuji Yama?

or   a  sarus crane

flying over the great Kanchanjunga?

or a breath of

stillness 

abroad on the waters

of Muncho Lake?

who knows?

and, does it matter?

Far away, mingling with the fragrant sunshine of the spring day, happy like the quivering shadows, she heard the fading voice of Krystabella, for one last time:

"Feed your soul

haiku a buck..."