Consolation

 When an elderly person in her/his mid- or late-eighties, why some people might even draw the line at mid- or late-seventies, passes away, it is almost customary to maintain that 'good, the old tired body did not have to suffer a lot'. It is almost as if long life, quite common these days, gets associated with woes, worries, wounds, and what not.

This common form of consolation, I do agree, may convince the head, the brain, the intellect.  Yet just scratch a little, and underneath lies this heart that very easily bleeds, this mind that more easily is wounded, this soul that never ever easily accepts the absence!What to do with them?

 That room, that corner of the room, the bed, and most importantly, that never ever to be repeated kind touch, loving glance, everything hurts, and continues to hurt. Why, there are days of wild regret for every minor most, but now deeply remembered, mistake, some error of omission by you by sheer oversight.

Mourning continues to keep a vigil in an innermost corner of your being. Nothing, your remembrances of the happy times together, your memories of the very many positivities of the dear departed, some very intense moments that enriched you both, nothing can ever displace that forever tender spot which can get worried open any moment a similar situation arises!

Time flies away, life goes on, routine has to set in. And, yet, the hurt heart refuses to heal. The deep void never ever fills. Honestly, real consolation never ever happens!

Pratima@ Happy masks always hide deep wounds that can wrench open, and easily at that, whether or not the rest of the materialistic world may/not understand the plight.

Oh, 'the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me'! Wrote Tennyson. Accepted, Indeed! Completely, totally, inalienably!