To my dearest,
I remember as if it was yesterday when my dad, your son came into my room at 6am. The day I saw him cry for the first time. Shocked at the sight and still in my hazy slumber I asked what was wrong and he some how whispered “he’s gone, nammade appachan poyadi.” He fell to his knees by my bed as he said those words and I swear I heard my heart break. Our tears became one as I pulled him into an embrace. He left after a few minutes, man of the house calling for flight tickets while I wept uncontrollably for an hour.
I refused to go at first you know, I cried and cried about it but at the end of the day I know you would have wanted me to come. To say my goodbyes. My way of dealing with grief was pretending like it didn’t happen, to continue as if nothing had happened and I did until I saw your body. Your once warm and loving face, now cold and emotionless. I had the chance of giving you a final kiss and the feeling still haunts me. It was as if you had just plunged deep into ice-cold water and never recovered. You felt like nothing. I can’t explain it but the thought still irks me at times.
A year later
As I step out the car that signaled the end of my 14 hour journey, I rush to your dearest on the porch. Her eyes are filled with tears and as I engulf her tiny frame into my arms, she lets them fall. Soon the unshed tears from my eyes fall too, days of waiting to be here, to come home. I slowly let go of her and stare, at the chair. Your chair. I long to see you sitting there, I long to crawl onto your lap like old times to hear you sing your favourite song . But you are not there, You are gone.
She takes my hand and welcomes me in and on the table a feast has been prepared. My favourtie sweets, your grandson’s favourite achar your sons favourite dishes, all made with love. Around the table endless chatter begins, how was the journey, how are you, how is home. I join in occasionally but I can’t help but stare at the chair, your chair and feel empty. As if something feels incomplete, I guess I just need to hear you shout one more time “ende edi avarku choru ennium kodakadi.” But you are not there. You are gone.
I need to breathe. Every place in our home reminds me of you. I try to distract myself so I’m sat there watching a malayalam movie, Kilikum. However while the rest of the family were all laughing at how annoyed Jagathy was getting. I was noticing how empty your chair was. If you were here you would have said “ithu kanathe shalom vellom vekkadi.” In the past I would have hated you for it but now I crave for you to say that. To pull me up by your side and lay my head on your lap, just one last time. But you are not there, you are gone.
I have learnt to deal with it but I need you to know, you are never forgotten. I think about you and how I could have treated you better while you were here. I wish I hadn’t taken you for granted. I really do. Anyways I hope you are having fun up there while a part of you is still here among us. I love you so so so much okay.
your darling and favourite grandchild, Broni x
P.S A few tears where shed while writing this and I have no idea why I am sharing this with you, just a gut feeling someone needs this.