By Adya Chauhan
I remain, as I've learnt from you, in this house.
I gaze out the window,
of the house you loved,
and I hear a restless shuffle.
I look behind, but you aren’t there.
I go to your old room and whisper,
“I know you’re happy that I’m back.
Yes, it’s true,
I’ve loved you longer than I’ve known you.”
I sit on a chair, next to Her.
In your absence, I’m taking care of Her.
I’m sad you aren’t too.
She talks in humour but has a strain of stress I can’t ease,
a pain I can’t lessen,
wrinkles I can't soften.
I don’t know how to fill your space;
I do not think I can.
I stand in the living room.
I know you're sad,
so I try not to let this go.
This house,
your home,
which has you in every corner.
Every peeling paint,
every broken china,
every irreparable, perishable, hopeless thing;
everything, everything-
nothing I can let go of.
Tragic.
Look at it now,
look at what we did.
(look at what we’ve become).
I walk outside.
In the garden, the flowers are so beautiful.
I remember,
“Love is in your grandparents' house."
Indeed, I feel you looking.
I feel you though you left long ago.
I stray in the hallway.
I stare down the gallery,
and I see you.
I’m 4 years old, and I see you.
I’m 5 years old, and I can’t see you.
I’m 8 years old, and I can’t see you.
Now, I’m 18 years old,
and I want to see you.
I roam the house, sort of how ghosts do,
and I sit in front of you
(in front of your photo).
I look at you and ask,
“Are you angry?”
“Do you hate this?”
“Can you forgive us?”
and then the light goes out.
I drag my suitcase, my umbrella and my heart,
and fit it in the car.
I talk to you,
"I'm going.
Your flowers have lost their smell,
yet I remember you still.
So, tell me-
I know leaving hurts as bad as being left, but
when will you come back to me?”
A small smile and a faraway face.
You turn and I leave.
You remain and I'm gone.