“How beautiful”, everyone’d say when they’d come to face with our picture. “Thanks!”, I’d chirp with a grin on my face, now I’d say the same but with a sigh filled with portions of longingness, desperation and some anger.
I remember reading in our middle school literature book - ‘The grief of separation is inevitable’, I thought I understood the essence of it every time we were at distance, but a few weeks back I was proved wrong by the ruthless force of death.
How it hurts to even write this, now with his favorite pen, that I can no more witness him hold. All through the room I see his belongings which due to habit his hands calmed at the touch of, on the side table, in the cupboard, on the shelf. ‘This is not helping.. ’. I think, yet can’t get rid of them, and so I lack response every time someone says “You’ve mourned enough, Jane! You’re so young, you’ve got to move on!”. “Hmm.. “ I’d reply.
Sitting here tonight, I have a clear view of the structure upholding things he passionately felt about and some objects preserving our delightful past, about which dear diary, I feel subdued contentment. His love for articles was peculiar. A cheap toy from the roadside, grey stones from the river, a thick book which he had built a secret storage space of and not to forget, his grenade shaped lighter. It seemed all of them had stories of their own. When I asked, he smiled and said “They’re special”.
For I am a collector of material pertaining experiences as well, I understood how some things lost meaning when expression in words is forced. Just how language wasn’t enough for us to speak of our love. So, I didn’t bother him.
Within the reach of my eyesight, stands my empty vase near frames of our photos and brushes and pencils. Right here, I made art and he designed. It was the approval of both when a work gained its liberty to be seen by any one else’s eyes and it was in that moment of approval where lied utmost joy bound with lovely togetherness. We were to grow together..
..there is only so much we can control.
I sit here alone.
However, tonight diary, I’ve decided to bring a change.
My love for him is unending from when it begun to the day I die. But for the human life that my soul has been gifted, and the tender light of sun that touches my skin, for the cool wind that changes forms to blow through my hair, trying to remind me that to be alive is to move, for the people who care and that must include me, I conclude the usage of this pen here. And tomorrow morning, when my father comes to my room, to gesture his care for me in some new way, his worry must be soothed at the sight of a rearranged shelf.