A blog by Anjana Sen
I began with you,
you ended with me.
How natural this seems now,
now that the ferocity of grief has been dealt with.
Wild red rage grief,
has turned into mellow yellow,
and I can begin to feel like I should,
like you always knew I could.
Your first-born, you could tell.
They read together silently, side by side.
His armchair, threadbare. Hers, newer, firmer.
Ignoring the cacophony of chaos in the air,
few words were spoken, much more to share.
Sometimes, in the middle of a line,
he would rest a gentle hand on hers.
She felt his skin, translucent, paper thin,
but said nothing, smiled and read instead.
To still and calm this mind of mine,
To write a verse on profound matter.
I strain to train this brain to shine,
Hush this patter, this mindless chatter.
Deep-breathing works, the heartbeat slows,
And hunt begins for poetry themes.
But conscious nonsense, in a stream it flows,
Disjointed words from random dreams.
Thought to thought, the monkey-mind jumps,
Caged in a prison with finite words.
He handed the envelope to me this morning,
The young builder, wielding a sledgehammer and a smile.
He found it by chance, without any warning,
Thought it might have been there for a while.
In the crevices of the bricks and mortar he was breaking,
The hammer and muscles bringing the roof down.
Destruction before creation, the new kitchen we were making,
A piece of paper, sepia, against the dusty brown.
Lightning ripped the night sky, followed by an explosive clap of thunder, as they drove in through the gates.
‘Come on honey, let’s run for it before the rain comes,’ he said, helping her out of the car.
Laughing happily, hands clasped tightly together, father and daughter made a dash towards the club house.
Suddenly she stopped in her tracks and turned her face up to the monsoon sky.
‘What is it, Pia?’ he asked, as fat drops of warm rain began to drum down upon them. ‘Come on, let’s go in, or we will both get drenched and mummy will be cross.’
‘Look up and smile daddy,’ she said, ignoring him. Pouting and dimpling just as another streak of lightning flashed, she added, ‘God is taking our photographs.’
Overcome by a stab of fierce love for his curly-haired moppet, he scooped her up, squeezed the little girl to his chest and ran into the club veranda. Where, as he had expected, his wife was waiting, with an expression darker than the thunder outside. Crossly berating him for getting their little girl soaked to the skin.