By Deetchana Sivakumar
Struck on a Saturday afternoon,
the news whispered,
you were no more.
Neither shattered nor able to swallow the grief,
I sank into eighteen years of you,
memories woven deep.
Our silent, endless talks,
understanding each other through glances,
like a silent ocean speaking in waves.
Every school ride, your quiet lessons,
teaching me to travel carefully,
like a bird learning to soar.
Your silent eyes never absent,
listening to my loud, longing wishes.
A quiet Santa Claus,
granting them before they were spoken.
My first art teacher, my first muse.
The artist who shaped my world. Your brushstrokes were patient.
Your portraits, poetry in charcoal and time. To me, you were Da Vinci, the one who made art breathe.
We were movie buddies,
before OTT made it easy,
Daily gossips, stories of your life, drowning in laughter and wisdom. Never missing a compliment, even for the simplest things, eagerly waiting while I cooked, just like a hungry child.
Your eyes, more excited than mine,
when I returned from shopping,
as if a designer admiring new fabric.
Being your mediator in fights with grandmother,
I made her understand.
A man in love never truly leaves his woman,
or she would feel left out, like a swan without its mate.
I watched silver claim your hair,
each strand is a story of exhaustion.
Like an unseen shadow, something drained you,
But I never thought Death itself,
would steal you away too soon.
I still hold the memory of the first bouquet you gave me,
fresh in my hands, though years have passed.
You and Dad placed me on a pedestal so high,
like a princess, like a warrior,
like something meant to conquer and cherish.
You were the first to give me flowers.
Then why did you leave before my bridal bouquet?
Why did you make me place a funeral garland
Where your warm hands should have been?
Why didn’t you whisper to me in the hospital,
tell me you would return home?
Did my mourning, loud with grief and guilt,
reach your soul?
Is that why you came to my dreams,
leaving behind a farewell wrapped in promises?
When will you return,
to make our house a home again?
When will I see you,
To feel that love only a grandfather can give?
I wish you were a phoenix,
so you could rise,
one last time.