Not Alone (A Poem...sort of)

The father of my father died

differently than how we all anticipated.

We imagined his dead earlier

due to his alcoholism, in a car accident or

due to his chauvinism.

He died in a hospital in the aftermath

of a minor surgery.

Alone.

 

My grandmother, his servant and wife,

Lived better without him, no doubt.

She resented even the sound of his voice,

Although she could not say it out loud.

She died by her bed,

Praying before going to sleep,

On Christmas eve.

Alone.

 

My grandparents had each a story to tell.

But they didn’t live in that era

Where they could have openly said it

To each other or someone else,

Instead, he subdued to alcohol

And she entered a pact with her silence

In absence of grace.

 

Untold stories from jailed characters are tragedies.

Assurances these stories will repeat again.

Unwritten stories are nothing but traumas,

And traumas will become addictions someday,

Shaping the modes of existence of the mass

That has no choice but to obey and die.

Alone.

 

Having the ability to share your story matters.

Having someone to share it to, even more.

Your life is no book to be buried, and your

Reasons are already shared by the most.

 

That is literature.

A trustful commitment among two sides,

Readers and writers like lovers

That choose to follow each other’s path.

Literature, a written recount of the stories that made us,

So, they are never forgotten

And we can grow progressively less

Imprisoned and rotted.

 

What if my grandfather could have

Understood his own story better.

If he could have shared it

to my grandmother earlier than later.

What if my grandmother could have found her own voice,

If story sharing could have helped’ em

Build a better marriage,

More empathetic, and less of a carriage

pulled by the horses of tragedy.

 

What if we are not condemned to be

neither divided nor alone.

If we could grow closer

and let go of the stones.

Maybe I could read your story,

Or you could write mine.

Maybe I can play a character

In the book of your time.

Maybe, we are meant to understand each other,

And grow independent and free, still entwined.