​I was 4 when she came in,

A glorious whirlwind of chaos. 

The kind of a person you could grow metaphors out of, 

And it was inevitable that I should grow to love her. 
Yes, love. 

Not admiration or adoration or affection. 

Or any of those words people use to circumvent love 

Not that I didn’t admire or adore her. I did. 

Very much so. 
She was a helper at our place. But in reality, a substitute for my mother who was never really there. 

I never wondered though, in retrospect. 

It was only natural that Stacey was the best mother one could have. 
Now they ask me to eulogise her and I’m at a loss for words 

Which is absurd because 

i) I have so much to say, and then nothing to say. 

ii) Stacey wouldn’t have wanted a huge show out of her death. “Pooh. These after-death ceremonies and rituals are hokum. Hokum, I tell you.” 

iii) I was suffering from PTSD according to the venerable family physician. Or pure shock, in layman terms. 
All these reasons were compelling, 

But the reason as to why I couldn’t string together some words in her memory? 

It’s because those words were personal to us both,

And no outsider could be allowed to infringe upon them

And the meaning they had for us. 

So here goes – 
Day#12 after Stacey 

I saw the sky today, 

The clouds look ready to be bottled up in mason jars, 

To be inhaled when one feels lonely. 

I wish I could pluck them all, 

I’m not greedy. Just lonely. 
Day#15 after Stacey 

A spider crawled up my back, 

When I was sitting in the garden 

I didn’t scream. 

Somehow the little arachnid was the least of my worries, 

Stacey isn’t here to save me anymore. 
Day#36 after Stacey 

I was in the washroom for more than a couple of hours, 

And no one seems to have noticed. 

I stood looking at myself in the mirror

“You are going to break a lot of hearts one day, dear.”

Stacey had said so that day. 

Then how come it’s my heart that feels broken. 
Day #56 after Stacey

A relative asked my father about the cause of Stacey’s death, 

“Oh well, it was a most unfortunate incident. How is the weather this time of the year in Philly, Jack?”

And that was it. 

But I remember her, and I always will. 
– A

20 thoughts on “Coping 

  1. Great poem! Love the creativity of how real you made it seem. 🙂 I admire those that can write poetry, it is something I practice, but can never get the hang of. I guess I need to be more focused. 🙂 Thank you, for reading my blog posts. I truly appreciate it!

    Liked by 1 person

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