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  • Writer's pictureSonal


Updated: Jun 20, 2021

Sitting on a rusted bench

That could hold only three people,

But somehow miraculously fit

Six people sitting on it in the

Dingy waiting room, counting seconds

And minutes for even the tiniest bit of news

I could get about my wife,

I find my mind wandering from

The nauseous smell that one

Generally associates with hospitals,

To how whoever prophesied

The Third World War must

Either be cursing themselves,

Or patting their back,

For the war has finally begun,

But this war is tougher than

All others that history has witnessed;

This war has people fighting for saving

The lives of everyone they know,

While desperately clinging on

To the last bit of their own sanity;

A nurse in her twenties approaches me,

Her words are like white noise to my ears,

As all I can do is focus on how her mask

Is several inches below her lips,

Before I finally gather my wits

And allow her words to reach my brain -

The last ventilator bed was given away to someone else;

From the corner of my blurred eyes,

I see several people like me,

Some clinging on to the last thread of hope,

Some understandably bathing in the ocean of denial;

The nurse hands me a plastic bag

Filled with the last possessions of my wife;

I walk out of depression's residence,

And find myself a spot under the banyan tree;

My heart feels heavier than the plastic bag I'm holding,

Eventually, my arm muscles catch up with the pain;

A dormant thought of a funeral pops up -

I go through the bag to see what needs to be buried,

But with everything, and everyone, that you ever bury,

There are counterparts that remain unburied

In your mind, until it's your turn to be buried -

Like her wedding ring, which leaves the memories

Of our first dance unburied,

The handkerchief onto which she had sewn her initials,

Leaving her excitement of doing so unburied,

A dried rose she must have worn in her hair

Since the day I last saw her five days ago,

That leaves her pristine smile unburied,

And a piece of paper with "Hey Love,"

Scribbled onto it painfully, but with utmost care,

Which can never bury the ache

That will forever haunt me for not

Being there to hear her speak her last words;

I stand there, battling to keep my tears away,

Wondering how long until I am buried.

//NaPoWriMo, Day 22

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