Come, Hiya. They tell me you haven't woken up in four days- and that you probably never will again- but what do they know, eh? Still, even if you cannot answer, listen to me once again. Do you remember those days, when the longest of nights were consumed in the maw of conversations that never ended; hushed voices- rising rapidly to a crescendo-falling into whispers again- whispers that never died out, but echoed softly around the house, tracing lines on the old sofa, caressing the azaleas in the porch, swirling around us in a light promise of security.
When did those conversations die out? Do they still lie in wait somewhere, tucked between the pages of the monthly bills, in the corner of the drawer that holds your knitting needles? Somewhere along the way, the old sofa found its way to the attic, and I never found the time to tell you how good you made the garden look.
I guess the conversations didn't die. They aged and withered, just as we did.
Is this a conversation? An old man, rambling to his sleeping wife, praying for a miracle in a land where miracles are scarce.. I don't like this conversation. But have it we must.
Because I need to tell you so much. And I always thought I had the time to- until suddenly, I didn't. So let's make up for lost time. For the time when I didn't speak to you for a week- I'm sorry. You see, you were looking at that ring in the store, and you said nothing. But I knew you liked it so, and you knew that I couldn't afford it. And it's been, what, over thirty years? All the rings in the world cannot make up for that black sullen silence. I apologise.
It's just that anger is so easy, you know. It is just so simple, to siphon off frustration in a moment of red, blinded rage. But you made me want to take the hard way. You taught me that swallowing my pride every once in a while is worth it, when I saw your face and read contentment in it. Not mere satisfaction- but real contentment. And that made me the richest man on earth.
We are old, old people now, Hiya. Older than I ever thought I'd grow to be, and here we are, still hand in hand- are you still listening? Yes, you are, aren't you.
So let me tell you this, for time is trickling through my closed fist, and it's almost night. Know that I always, always loved you. From the day that you walked out of your father's house, your chin held high and your hand in mine, we have been inextricably bonded- and I have cherished every long-drawn, rushed-out second of it. In a world made up of countless uncertainties, you have been the compass that guided a terribly windswept ship home.
I'm home, Hiya.
Know this, that I am not afraid anymore. This world stopped frightening me a long while ago, but the strong fear of oblivion held on to me, stronger in the dusk of age, strongest as I saw you weaken in front of it. But, Hiya, remember how you once said that if parallel universes are real, then there is atleast one where we never met? Let me confess, then, that such a universe would sustain me, even if the faintest wisp of an idea of you were there to anchor me to life.
You see, I was weak. And it is your courage that binds to my soul, lending me the strength to face the pinpricks of somethingness, the vast spaces of nothingness, the cold floor under my feet and the stark vacuum that draws closer every second.
I am still afraid, Hiya. Because empty voids may not give any special benefits to senior citizens who still behave like infatuated teenagers. Because these bondages of body gives us a deadline too short. Because I never want to lose sight of you. Because I can feel my heart literally ache, in sight of loss. Because uncertainty is always scary.
Stay with me a minute more, Hiya.
Let me thank you for lives well-lived.
Let me chide you for the last one year that you haven't left this bed.
Let me hold your hand, warmish, pulse in tandem to mine, heartbeats in silent resonance, testiments to the existence we've known.
Let me love you, for whatever time is left, till time stops making sense.
