Grief Unspoken- Anjali Khanna

Statutory warning!

Everything I’ve ever felt

I’m about to turn it into poetry

Because I don’t know where else to go

With all my misery

Dear reader,

welcome

I’m about to make you uncomfortable

As I speak about my dead person

But hey

I gave you a fair warning

Before letting you read my diary of grief

Where I unburden

I hope you’re able to read through the pale crusty sheet

This faded charcoal ink is my earliest memory as a bereaved

There was hope

Hope in my grief

For you had only gone

Gone for a week

Was it another work meeting

or a conference you were invited to speak?

I guess I didn’t realise

your absence didn’t guarantee a return this time

and now at the dining table

there is always an empty seat.

My grief might be pain

But it’s made out of anger

Because every time I try a new coffee,

I know I can’t share it with you

Every time I watch a new murder mystery,

I know I can’t share it with you

But sometimes I read a book so divine,

I forget I can’t share it with you.

I spend more time thinking about what you must be thinking

And if there really is an afterlife that you’re living

And if you can look over me in death

I hope you don’t see me yearning

with the preposterous will

to reverse time,

battle fate

or even find a cure to death.

Dear reader,

If you’ve still stuck around

We’re almost at the end of my diary

For grief has even exhausted the words out of me

I hope the depth of my despair plunged into your heart

I hope you flinched and wished to stop to read

every time I said the words death, grief and bereaved

I hope you felt helpless and uneasy, just like me

I guess grief also turned me evil; a sardonic casualty

But wait, before you depart

Let me sign off with one last remark

Somedays I just want to talk to my father

There is no victory to celebrate, no sorrow to share

I just had a day, and I want to call my father

And I miss the sound of my own voice screaming ‘papa’

and I miss the sound of a familiar voice answering to that call

And whoever said three’s a crowd,

they couldn’t have been more wrong.

For three is an empty house.