• daphnae 9w

    The winter penetrated into my sleeves, quicker than I could realize. After another seven months, I could watch my grandma on the same chair in the balcony, knitting sweaters. She could knit sweaters, and at the same time recite the poems my grandfather wrote for her. Incomplete they were, she would always forget the concluding lines. "I will end this tomorrow," she would say with the slightest smile, such that I could feel her tears. The next evening, she would start another poem, and I wondered if these poems would ever find an end. The more I listened to her, reciting it with all the love, the more I wanted to listen to the last poem. It was as if she would wake up, to look forward to this particular moment of the day. Since the day my grandfather left, he took away the voice of my grandma. And I too watched the clock more than a hundred times, as if it could bring 5 p.m. anymore closer; just to hear her voice. It feels like a millennium, when the most talkative person in the house grows quiet all of a sudden, and it feels incomplete, as a whole.

    From the balcony, one could watch the foliage and the grey buildings and the cars moving along. But poems would always entice me more, more than anything in this world I have ever known. And grandfather's poems were one of the best collections I've ever read, or maybe listened to. But that day, the chair carried the sweater, completed and ready to wear. I ran to her room to find her on the bed. For the first time, I saw her smile after grandfather left. She called me to sit near her and I did. "Your grandfather never wrote me poems. These are the poems I wrote for him, but could never dare to gift him. After he left, his pictures and my poems are all I am left with. Every single memory, I have etched down with the sweetest ending by his name. I am sorry my girl, for I could not recite you the endings. I couldn't reveal the truth, because I never dared. But today, your grandfather is calling me. And I must leave.... I am handing you all the letters, pictures and my poems to you. These are yours now. And always remember, these papers are worth more than thousands of jewels and properties. Thank you for always being there. I love you, my girl." Her tears drenched my hand and it felt warm. I wanted to scream and hold her tight but my hands didn't reciprocate, neither did my lips. And she continued,

    //To the stars and beyond,
    Will even the cosmos can
    Keep you away from me?
    Darling, we are humans but
    Our love isn't.
    It is meant to soar, swim, run.
    Behind the shadowy sky,
    Across the platonic ocean,
    Over the dead, yellow leaves.
    It will leave,
    And we too will
    To a place where infinity
    Shall be the beginning
    Of our journey.
    You just need to wait for me
    In the Heavens you belong//

    With this, she closed her eyes and I too did. She moved to her binding solace, and I imagined her reciting her never ending poems to her ultimate lover. The love, our generation perhaps has never seen.
    ©saya__

    #mirakee #wn #pod #nocturnalnovember #fiction
    BREAKING WRITER'S BLOCK.
    @writersnetwork Can't believe!!!!! Thank you for the 6th repost.������

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    Now, she is knitting him sweaters from the wool of her metaphors, rhythmically rhyming over the knots. The sweater would be warm, warmer than any sweater you would ever put on.
    ┬ęsaya__