Nikita Ravindran | January 31, 2015
The sky’s magnificence was emblazoned onto the lacquer lake, while colour-flecked fish were plunking in the beauteous boundaries, as if to embrace the sky. The shimmering body of life was coveted behind an empire of trees adorned with an orchestra of flamboyant birds. A pier extended itself into the lake, upon which a happy family delved into the Zen- a man, a woman and their toddler baby girl. That was my family.
We went out to the bayou every once in a while. In one of those myriad of memories, I saw my husband as clearly as the hyaline lake with a smile so broad it seemed to reach his ears. Little Samara clung to his neck, with the same hair and eyes as him, glistening in those slivers of light. The honeysuckle’s sweetness spread to fill the air, as the wind gently sighed, while an aura cast by the sheer joy had our hearts dancing to the melodies of love. As we set up our miniature picnic, with the cliché basket filled to the brim with Samara’s favourite sandwiches, we took a picture together. The three of us…
I am not blessed with his presence any longer. He was stolen from me by the mechanical failings of a human and his vehicle a year back. The picture lay in my palms, as the warmth of tears embraced my cheeks. I sat at my desk, staring into the vivacity, hoping he had found peace. I then looked up, to a framed photo of our daughter- my one reason to keep living. My place of refuge? It would most definitely be that memory- alive yet dead, real but surreal, love with sorrow.