Serendipity

“15 years.

What words shall I utter after 15 years of constant change? How should I know,
intrinsic in my pores - I, who was part blood and sweat of another body (that had
nothing heavenly about it). Just a soul wandering in the arising of the world.
I reckoned considerably, and not a single thing came out. The words were not
sufficient. They were never enough. I could discern that no other words evoked
tenderness or fondness, as time went by. Absorbing the metric of absence and dancing
with the verses of an August elegy - that you were not anyone, anymore. Just a
resemblance in the heart of my heart. A voice drifted in my mind. A cloud of dust that
once was someone. How inequitable, isn't it?
Over the course of time, I decided to get intimate with myself. Something for me and
for my celestial body. Because you were everything. The most exquisite damsel, that
my eyes have been blessed with. You, a stay-home wife, and him working. That old-
fashioned love. That cliché I always craved for. But you left the house meaningless.
The unmade bed. The windows were ajar so you could feel the little air that your
exhausted lungs were trying to catch. And my feeble soul, judged by the unfaltering
looks of the line of life that you had left, shed tears in every corner. Because it was the
only thing that felt warm after your dead-coldly body.
On 1st August, I was dazed for a sheer moment. You just cropped up in my dreams
after a long time. And I knew for sure, it was you. In the simplest way, a shadow, a
breeze. An image. And I promptly knew that it was you. Owing to the fact that it was
a silhouette - constructed by anamneses of a poor child. I was sure you appeared to let
me endure, in this fraudulent world that instigated the pain of life, in exchange for a
lap of flowers...that no longer existed. The epiphany, as compensation for a few
words, was not understood by human beings who did not touch but felt. The mystery
of the scars that I did not make, that I did not cause, but that hurt in the verse of the
poem.
I was still able to remember the few times you spoke to me, the little things you told
me. And you said so much with a warm, fiery look, "Don't run, you'll fall." Because
this was it, an (almost predictable) order of events that you called a wound. And
metaphorically, the towel on my face symbolized all the worry and darkness that had
become my life. A few cries outside my tone of voice; a few lost tears in a world
without shoulders. Where does one lay a head that cries without parents? But I didn't
listen anymore. So sorry about that.
 I must confess, that the guilt I put on you, came from my veins, from the person who
gave me life. Why did I suffer? I, who was so weak, so alone - if destiny was
programed, why didn't you reset mine? One way to play, one more life saved, and
there six went away. Through pillboxes, they tried to murder you. But you, in a body
made of skin and bones, let yourself be carried away by the weight the disease has
caused you. One day it was you and the bed. On another, it was me and the globe
waiting for my next step.
The singularity of a sickly body, pale from the gift of life. Because there was a choice
to be made, and they made yours. The misfortune of a couple, who were in love, who
left their children helpless on the cruelest of all planets. Even Venus would have more
life if it were for the love, you left behind. Because I failed you as a person and as
everything I could have become. And losing hurts when you don't know the value of
things - and pride is all I have left, of what was not left with me.
If God didn't make you eternal, Mom, it's only because he wanted to hobnob with
you. And I hated myself for it. Hating the fact that I was nothing more than a girl
looking for your company, on foggy forenoon - just so I could take a trip down
memory lane – unshared.

15 years of mourning for my never found serendipity.”

And like everything else, Anna had imagined for herself, a life she had been told
about. Yineisi was never there - never found. The line of fate, which didn't touch her
pinky, which didn't bind with anyone. And the black hair, from the burnt roses of
time; the curls in her hair, from the tangle of life - which she had scarpered. How do
you explain to a child that the mother dies, at the beginning of the chapter? That the
rest of her book would be written by the sadness that emanated from her? And her
whole life could be a fanciful story, where everything would be flawless, within a
normal world, of an almost perfect family. But Anna decided to close the book, not to
endure another chapter where the characters changed because of a plot twist.

Poor Anna. Life went on and she was just a soul wandering in the arising of the world.