Sometimes the most terrible day…
the day everything changes in a very long time;
can come disguised as a regular day.
Because if we know
that this day was going to be the day
that would change the way you saw the world,
that lessons learnt from this day on
will set how lessons will be learnt forever,
then we’d perhaps set the time
to wake up and look at the sun rise.
Have a longish cup of tea, eat breakfast slowly.
Savour everything.
Because nothing is the same
Nothing will be.
Show me how to cry.
Is your grief bigger than mine?
Could mine be bigger than yours because
you wear a smile on your face?
Can grief be graded? Is there a varna of sadness?
And what do we do with the anger?
And how do I explain
Why I want to be a whirling dervish
Every time I think of this day.
What do you do when you can’t laugh without remorse
And you can’t watch people moan
Without a veneer of contempt:
you don’t know what loss is.
You don’t know what loss is.
Loss is to lose someone while they are still around.
Loss is to think they would have been
better off if they were dead…
and feel ashamed you can think that way.
Loss is lack of permission.
Why did You come
and turn my life around?
Why did You put me in a spinner
and have me spin around
At high speed…
very very high speed
And pause only to spin me around
Again
In a different direction
Again at a high speed
Very very high speed.
Do I look like clothes? Are You a dryer?
Because I’m feeling wrung out.
Dry.
Like nothing will ever be able to infuse me with joy.
Like from now on life will be always a perspective.
(c) VINTHA, DAY 1
