The Road to My Fathers House

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The road to my fathers house is layered with gravel, pebbles and stones.
The road to my fathers house is dusty and worn. 
The soil is dry and grainy. Mounds of clay mix with sand, mix with stones, making it uneven, lumpy and bare even.
Undecided plants grow and go yet some take root determined never to move.

Soroti road is paved but not to my fathers house. The silver-black surface spreads for sections at a time interrupted by pot holes here and there. 

As you travel further out, towards my fathers house the layer thins and fades and disappears. All that's left is clouds of thick, brown dust. It settles over eye brows and hair, over skin and every where.
Don't be mistaken this road has been worse, so rugged this road but surely 53 years later, it ought to look better. 

It's expanded and contracted. He's cleared it, it's grown back closing in tighter not opening up wider.

The road to my fathers home is brown as the far as the eye can see. Its been this way as long as I can remember. 

Maybe some day, maybe some day.

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