Life Was as It Was

It has been eight years. Time passes. It creates a distant fog, blurring memories. I was thinking while sitting by myself, what if there was a magic line on which you could talk to your departed other half. No one knows how long one is going to live,or how soon it will be time to go. Hence these few lines.

I’m ringing your phone

Hoping to hear

You were coming back home

I never knew

How futile it will be

To not hear from you

A magic line, appearing above

The sound of your voice

Coming through

Sitting alone

Longing for you

To be back home

Life was, as it was

(Sheen, August 2020)

Frigid

I have a video of it in a VHS cassette. It’s lying in the spare room, which used to be my sewing room. It now holds all the household junk with which I can’t part. Some day, and somewhere in the realms of my mind there lurks a hope — maybe the things there turn out to be useful. I’m sure that’s not the case, but still I can’t throw away.

My late husband, my dear, darling daughter, and I had gone to spend a few days in the Northern Areas. I don’t remember the exact location for it’s truly a long while ago —but it definitely holds a place in memory.

They had a bet that if Nola held her finger in the frigid water of the stream for five minutes, she would get five thousand bucks. She had several attempts at it, laughingly allowed by her father each time she wanted another try.

She was sourly disappointed!

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Frigid

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Distant

Coming August will mark the fifth death anniversary of my late husband. With passing on of the years my late husband is becoming a distant memory. I feel more of his presence in both homes in Peshawar, and the village home than here in Houston.

One reason can be that his photos hang in my own homes. They keep his memory alive. The photographs mark happy times in our lives with no shadow of death looming over them. They evoke happy times. The one hanging in the hallway shows him dressed in his military uniform, and looking totally handsome, and beguiling. The other one has both of us, covers a wall in the large kitchen in our Peshawar home.

My Quran teacher said that dead people’s photographs shouldn’t be displayed in our homes. That is one reason there is a small photo of my husband only on the fridge which son has pasted, and I have not hung any others here. Anyway the home I share with son is his, although all the furniture, and things belong to me.

I am not going to remove the photographs in my own homes. It maybe wrong according to my religious teacher, but I can’t deny the comfort they bring to my heart when I look at them. Maybe God won’t disapprove, and look over my misdoing.

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DAILY PROMPT

Distant

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Float

…..

I float in the memories of bygone times

Comeback to them for instant replays

They are wonderful, joyful and sweet

Keeps me occupied some days

To foray into memories I close my eyes

They come back rushing, and replays

(Sheen-January 6,2017)

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DAILY PROMPT

Float

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Year

Yesterday I had a shock. I eagerly searched for a number in my old phone diary. I waited to hear the voice of my friend, and learned to my horror she was no more. Knowing fully well that no one can escape death, I had never thought that she will die so soon. The person who talked to me didn’t know any details.

Another sad happening last year was the divorce of my son. It devastated him, and the children, but life goes on.

New years  come, and old years go

Those who were here had to go

Leaving memories sad behind

No tears can bring them back beside

Seeing my son’s heartbreak was a pain

Why did it happen was his agonized refrain 

There weren’t easy answers he could gain

His life got changed, nothing was the same

Life is fickle, life is short

In a moment all get lost

Gather joyful moments to your heart

In life’s journey they will last

(Sheen-January 2017)

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DAILY PROMPT

Year

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Careful

Despite the nineteen years edge I have over my son S, he scolds me when he sees me slowing down the car while taking a turn. He doesn’t understand my fear of having a repeat of what happened to me on 2nd June. 

While taking a right turn, I didn’t slow down. The car went on a curb, and hit a tree. My car’s accident is still fresh in my mind. It will take some time for it to get erased from memory.

In a way it’s good, one learns from mistakes. I will always remain careful.

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Daily Prompt

Careful

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The Old Stump

In 2009 we (my late husband and I)  visited our old friends and neighbors in Abbotabad. Our visit was a huge surprise for them. We had almost forgotten the way to their home.  The previous empty plots of land had new houses built on them. It was no wonder we couldn’t find our way. The area was un recognizable.

While we waited in the drive way, their man servant went inside the house to tell them about our coming. I looked at the garden, and was delighted at finding the old tree stump I had given them was still part of their landscape. It looked enchanting with an urn of flowers on top of it, and more plants and flowers planted around it in the soil. 

I felt a pang of regret at the moment, why did I part with it? 

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DAILY PROMPT

Stump

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Sky

When a cold wind is blowing

And the sky gets laden with clouds

And the twinkling stars disappear, and it seems they are no more

The weather is gloomy

I go back to the awful days of my husband’s illness

The last years of his life

Makes me inexplicably sad again

(Sheen-June2016)

DAILY PROMPT

Sky

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Beach

Combing the beach for sea shells

Looking for something whole

Not broken, or scrunched into pieces

They are not the ones I am sold

The sea shells gathered lie in a glass plate now

Remind full of memories on hold

(Sheen-May2016)

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Beach

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Handwriting

My handwriting in Arabic : Ayats(verses) 97-98 from the Quran, Surah(chapter) Al-Mominoon

Translation:

And say, “My Lord! I seek refuge in you from the incitement of the devils

And I seek refuge in You, my Lord, lest they be present with me.” (at the time of death)

In the beginning of my married life, I couldn’t make out my (late) husband’s writing. Not all of it but some of the words. With time I managed to read his letters. He would send them to me through those who were coming on leave. He would write when he could, sitting in a tent, trying to snatch some minutes between his daily routine.

Sometimes the words would be scribbled upon a small piece of paper– all my love, R.

He wouldn’t write what he was doing, or when he would be coming on leave.

On the other hand his Urdu and Arabic writings were fantastic. Simply beautiful!

My own handwriting has detoriated from my earlier days — but it’s too late to do anything about it.  One reason: I am always in a hurry to do things.
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