To My Father On His Birthday

Father and me ©Asha Rajan

My dearest Achan,

Eighteen years have passed and more, since Death took you by the hand and led you away.  That moment of realisation that you had departed is still so clear, so breath-stealing these many years on.  And yet.  And yet I can no longer remember the exact quality of your voice, the timbre of your laugh.  Memories of you are slideshows, short films that play in my imagination; you are animated, vividly coloured, laughing and larger than life.

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Phoenix

The removalists scour Mama’s house, wiping away any traces of her. It has taken me the better part of the day to pack the picked over bones of her home, and I have left her bedroom till last.

This is the most difficult room, the one in which she disappeared so frequently into her own world, and then eventually disappeared into the darkness of her illness. There are too many memories here.

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