An Empty Home

A poem on packing

Losing a parent is one of the most traumatic experiences in human life. Sometimes, the grieving process takes years. The wounds do not heal quickly. Now and then, fresh triggers cause the wounds to bleed.

Sorting and packing things in a parent’s old home is one such event. No amount of self-talk and planning can stop the old wounds from ripping open — there is no one waiting on the other side of the door, eager to talk; no one will ever cook all favorite things in that kitchen again; and no one will ask to spend a few more minutes before saying goodbye.

I wrote this after the packing and sorting process.

The old photos go into the Yes pile.
No, to yesteryears’ records.
Report cards and trophies remain packed,
To become the next generation’s discards.
--
Kanjeevaram sarees and custom suits,
Tended with so much care,
Make it to the Donations pile,
For someone else to wear.
--
Remaining forlorn on the walls
Are pictures of Gods once revered —
Silent witnesses to unanswered prayers,
To an umbilical cord severed.