Through the glass on the door, I saw a black dog lazing on lush green grass; a rock beside and a few trees too. The sun smiled assuredly, and I saw signs of the breeze’s visits. To the left, the concrete stood firm and tall, as always, paying no attention to the arrival of peace.
While inside, young hands wrote a paper; minds activated by questions. My words did their share of dance alongside, floating in air invisibly. All eyes in the room were down, my eyes all over compellingly. I paced the terraced floor up and down, right and left, my mind traveling miles to no end. The clock on the wall seemed unusually slow.
There were no last words, just a
weak wave of his left hand I remember. It must’ve been a message - perhaps
wishing us well, when I think of it now. The look he gave us before closing his
eyes to sleep that night was his last look at us; and we had no inkling of it.
There had been no sounds of pain, the whole month that he was at the hospital.
“Is your stomach aching, dad?” we’d ask and he’d say, “No.” The doctor had
diagnosed colon cancer and told us to keep him happy for the remaining days that
he had to live. He didn’t have much time, the doctor informed us. We told dad
nothing of the diagnosis. The figure lying on the bed that we looked at early next morning was a still one, we discovered. Dad’s face looked so peaceful, as
if dad was just asleep. And, we had actually drawn up a list of names of people
we were going to request to come and see him, and chat with him. I stared at
the piece of paper in my hands, feeling incomplete. My tears fell silently on it,
drowning the names.