By Ekta Ingle
I wonder if my father's death shaped me as a person,
Or if I'm just being emotional.
Sometimes I wonder: what if it was my fault?
Because a heart attack isn't random.
What if, out of the 100 problems,
I was the one who struck the iron?
They said I didn't care enough,
Because I was too busy looking after the ones who lived,
Rather than the one who didn't.
Maybe I didn't cry enough.
Maybe I didn't love him enough.
Maybe I was the one to be blamed for something I was never part of.
The hospital,
The house,
The crematorium—
I can't remember.
The ice cream that never made it home,
The one he talked about before leaving:
"Why didn't you tell me you wanted one?"
Those last words of affection.
"You should get a CT scan."
Last words of desperation.
What if I had been a little more insistent on getting one?
Maybe it wouldn't have happened.
My anxiety knocked on my door again;
I hadn't seen it in years.
"You deserved it,"
My mind still playing tricks,
Saying, "You're just being dramatic."