It’s a half hour drive.
Three weeks back I couldn’t reach fast enough. Today I wish the road would go on and on.
It’s a good thing that I know this route like the back of my palm, because today I’m not really looking. The water before my eyes is my own tears. The sound of the waves is drowned out by the crashing of my soul.
A heart doesn’t snap like brittle twig or burst like an overfilled balloon. A heart breaks in the heaving waves of the realization that it is entering a new reality. There’s a part of it that has to die so that the rest can carry on with its duties to the other people you love.
With no immediate decisions to take, no one to console, no one to be strong for, I give in to the enormity of my grief. Expel the breath that I did not even realise I had been holding in all along. Acknowledge my hopelessness, my shame, accept my helplessness.
Half an hour is all I have to break and rebuild my self again.
Half an hour is all I have between saying “Thank you doctor,” and “Mama, we stopped the ventilator.”
In response to a photo posted as the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt of Sep 23 2018.
Photo Credit: Anurag Bakhshi