by Parth Pandya
“It’s missing, it’s missing,”
Rang out cries from the hall
“The amulet,” cried Grandpa
Wobbling, as if he might just fall
Soon, a posse was formed
Hands and eyes searching in earnest
The missing piece must be found
For our fragile Grandpa dearest
Hours passed in the tense household
And no sign of the amulet was seen
Grandpa finally uttered some words
“It’s stolen. This is a crime scene.”
The former governor must be right
For years of misanthropy he had witnessed
So what if everyone here was his kin
Trust was never high on his list
And so, his sons and their wives
And his daughters and their pets
And the domestic helpers one and two
Each found themselves beset
With alacrity, a room was set
For the questions to be asked in
And one by one, they filed
Into the mouth of the lion’s den
“Where did you see it last?
Did you ever touch it?
Why should I trust a word you say?
I know you had your eyes on it”
So the purported thieves
All sat through the inquisition
Red-faced, shamed, ignominiously tamed
They bore the brunt of the accusation
For they were now in the season
Of Grandpa’s growing senility
Of growing imagination
And decreasing cognitive ability
They laughed and they cried
At this regular charade
Can this amulet ever be found?
Frustrated, they silently played
It is true, it wasn’t the amulet
That was sought after
It was Grandpa’s faith
That was the crux of the matter
What price can an amulet get you?
A hundred in a pawn store?
But one good turn in the will from the old man
That, my friends, was worth a lot more
So, craftily they stole,
Not his amulet, but his trust
Building a case against the rest
Suggesting the kin’s gold lust
So the day passed into night
The mystery continued to confound
The old man’s wretched amulet
Was nowhere to be found
And one day Grandpa died
His last words, “I am so sad”
They gathered again, to hear his will
The sons, the daughters, good and bad
“To all of you who read this will
I have for you one quest
He who finds my amulet
Will get more than the rest”
They all sighed, spat and cursed
At the old man’s masterstroke
In senility, he found some revenge
They laughed before, now they were the joke
