And the thing is,
is that I am a volcano of rage right now.
I am a mass of rage,
These were the last few days of my dad's life last year.
I am reliving those moments,
all over again.
The last cup of tea
I fed you with my hands.
Your desire to get out of there
and write about your hospital experience.
Do you remember daddy?
You had even thought of the title --
"From Doom to Room."
It turned out to be just the opposite.
I can't laugh about it.
I have no sense of humour about this.
He wanted to get out of there
and write about it.
He thought he was getting out of there.
He believed he was getting out of there.
He wanted to write about it all.
About being stuck in a hospital,
about being shifted around many ICUs,
about having all those painful MRIs
and surviving it all --
He never saw it coming.
And neither did we.
And I ended up doing his last rites.
How hard I tried to shake off
all the shittiness
of last year
with a nervous stray thought of hope
only to start off the first day of this year
with another death,
I walked around my grandmother's home
searching for the ghost of my little girl self
in the peeling paint of the walls,
in the faded black-and-white snaps,
the old hibiscus tree from where you got your flowers to adorn your Gods.
They're undressed now,
without Their floral tributes.
The flowers hang loosely
and forlornly on the shrubs,
while in the kitchen,
there are memories
of your hustle and bustle
as a lonely cloud of forgotten aromas and fragrances
hovers about in the corner,
trying to keep alive
the love that you dished out to us,
was where I felt safe,
and so happy.
The emptiness in that house
is so enormous
that there's no way to escape it
and even then
it can't swallow me whole
for I am bigger than that emptiness;
I am full of red-hot rage
and inky-blue pain.
I am a volcano of rage
I black hole of grief.