The browning maple tree shelters me under its magnanimity for another long day. I meekly succumb to all the solace it had to offer and let it’s withered leaves float over me, comforting me with its caresses as I sat down to lament yet again this afternoon. Autumn has been kind to me all these years in its patient acknowledgement of my loss, allowing the universe to shed parts of itselves to mourn my loss. With one hand clutched to my chest and another on my stomach, I weep my heart out not being able to stand it any longer. My windpipes have given up on me, and they do not make a sound anymore. My tears too, sulk their way slowly down the corners of my eyes. The eyelids are exhausted and only wishes to close down on each other forever.
The meadows of the world are vast, infinitely vast as if they are reaching out to a land unknown where an ardent lover awaites it’s arrival. When I opened my eyes again, I watched my daughter gracefully spring towards the horizon from a distance. Her long long hair fluttering in the wind and bringing life to everything it touched. She has got her back to me and I cannot seem to decipher her face clearly. She’s far away, very very far. Also, probably angry that I have been crying again. I saw her long tender hands, an etch of her father’s that she proudly inherited, play with the tips of the plants she laid hands on all along her way.
I sat watching her in a daze for what seemed like an eternity and the hot tears that tore out of my eyes now hit the tendrils and weeds and grass which shuddered in pain with me. When the vision turns blurry, the laughter of my daughter too seemed to fade away with it into hollow nothingness at a distance as she runs into the horizon. And perhaps this is my toll, for not wanting you enough then when you sprouted as a surprise inside the walls of my feminity. But, now all I can think of is, Will I see your face next fall? And maybe you’ll have his funny nose and my sultry eyes just the way he always talked about. Maybe. Maybe not.