The three sons gathered after ten years, at their mother’s funeral. Death achieved what a lifetime of efforts couldn’t. (A brief one in memory of you, grandma.) Advertisements
The ability to write is sometimes a curse. The constant, incessant urge to put your thoughts on paper is often catastrophic. It stands testimony to your deepest desires and fears and feelings that you will, perhaps, regret one day. Like a lover scorned, spilled ink can haunt you.
Two stories, two separations – one is yet to occur, the other is yet to be realized. #1 I am afraid, you will quietly leave me someday like the waves recede softly from the shores back to the endless sea and I, like the shore, will keep waiting for the waves to advance and kiss… Read More Mismatch of perception