It is the 7th
of November again. A day etched in memory; a forgotten birthday, one that
brings me tears every year, clenching my heart in remembrance.
Already my eyes are watery,
I miss you. I've missed you and I can't stop. I don't want to, but I wonder how
others carry on without their loved one, how do they stop the tears?
I remember your bright
lipsticks, and how my dad didn't like it when I used yours or played with them.
I remember your perfume,
well sort of. I remember it wasn't fruity or with vanilla like the ones we get
these days. Yours was what my mother called "heavy". It was yours. It
defined you. It was etched in your scent.
I remember when you used
to stay over at our place, I always wanted you to sleep next to me and I hated it
when you had to leave. When you did, I'd come home from school and smell the
pillows, till I had sniffed your scent away entirely.
The year after you died,
I started university and it was so close to your home. But the house was closed
and you weren't there. I wished you were alive so I can stay over and may take
care of you or at least hold you tight.
I remember sleeping on
your sick bed towards the end.
Life's not been easy; it
never is. But I still wish you were here. I wanted to share my successes with
you, my ups and downs.
I wish… but I can only
remember.
Rest in peace
grandmother Lolo.
The Picture, a poem also written for Lolo on her birthday in 2014.
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