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The One Who Always Had Enough


The first thing I remember,
about you,
is your smell,
that lap that held many,
selflessly giving love,
giving warmth,
giving nutrition.


You never asked
for anything in return,
And I didn't even
buy you the slippers
I had thought I would,
for you.
They all say,
they can't forget your smile.
I can't forget
what lay behind your smile.
That undying strength
of a woman,
who always believed
that what's supposed to happen,
always happens.

You always scolded me
for turning up my nose
at things, and yet
you said I was pure,
just like the milkmaid,
who used to come to your
house years ago.

We can never be,
even one fourth of what you were,
Not even close to achieving
that grace under pressure,
that sturdy belief
that good brings good.

Can death kill you?
No it can't.
Your body was old,
sagging arms, tender hands,
that always caressed every one
that sought out from you.
Can death take away anything,
when life couldn't,
from the one who always had enough?

You can't be reborn.
I'm sure you've seen it all,
learnt it all.
An old soul,
you're one with the void now.

One with the void,
that begins and ends
in itself, without
light or darkness.
That only gives birth
to newer galaxies
and new lives,
watching and guiding,
the dreams of young stars.

P.S: For my grandmother (December 22, 1923 - January 8, 2007)