Don't worry about papa and me.

Sometimes in the silence, in your room of shadows, in the suffocating stillness of stale air, entombed within cracked paint-peeled walls; walls that close in on you, creeping ever nearer, crushing you... you hear her voice. Muted. Far away at first. Then with clarity, inside your head. A warm embrace lifting you gently from the cold Sisyphean abyss.

"Have you eaten?"

"What did you eat? Why did you eat that? You know that's not good for you. How's your tummy?"

"Do you have a cold? Did you take your meds?"

"You need a haircut. You look really messy. Tie your hair."

"You look tired. Stop spending so much time on the computer. You work too hard. Why don't you take a nap? Don't worry about papa and me. We are fine. Go rest. I'll wake you up later. You need to rest. Go."

And you can't keep the blood-warm tears from streaming down your cheeks. And once again... there is only silence. Cold blue silence as it dawns on you: She's gone. Mummy's gone. She's not coming back. Ever. And with a heart crushed to bits, you whisper a cry, "Happy Mother's Day mummy... wherever you are. I love you." #thebestofyou
Ramesh Kula