Manmeet Oberoi

I remember when you and I played
Under a blue spring sky
Surrounded by fields of lilies.
Why did it take so long for me to realize
That children' s memories of their parents
Should always remain at dawn?

I remember your hand being large and weary.
Mine was barely the size of your thumb,
So I held onto it tightly
I never wanted to lose my grip.
You placed me on your shoulders
And sped through the row of lilies
Their petals caressed our cheeks
And the wind brushed against our foreheads
Both of us enveloped in joy.

But dusk always comes
Today, that sky is dyed crimson.
My heart shatters like stained glass.
His memories, words,
The distance between us
Wound me until it’s all shards.

When did I first notice the distance between us?
No conversations shared,
No understanding of one another,
Living together yet always unreachable.

One day we learned to hurt instead of speak,
A ritual known as shouting—
The only dialogue between
Two headstrong and foolish people.
My papa and I are divided,
Like the ocean separating America and Mumbai.

One ritual comes to mind—
The details no longer matter.
I shouted that I hated your guts.
You told me that I should end my life.
Those words are a curse
They linger even after your death.

On this day, eclipsed by a crimson sky,
I attend your farewell ceremony.
You are no longer part of our world
And must be sent back home—
To the ghostly memories
Of your own mother and father.

As the eldest son it's my responsibility
To witness the lone bright flame
That make sure no part of you
Is left behind to grieve.

Why does it take standing alone as I watch you burn,
Your suit turning into dust,
The flesh charring off your skin,
Your bones scattering like lilies whose ashes caress my cheek,
And the emptiness that remains after,
For me to realize
I can't ever bring myself to hate you—
even though I wish I could?
Our ritual of shouting has come to an end
And you leave only shriveling lilies in its wake.