The Old Man And The letter Box-1
I have tried leaving the words to themselves, like people left me to myself.
When I try to live old memories, I have to dig deep.
I have long forgotten my dear ones.
There is still little left of this last bottle of whisky and two ice cubes in the jug.
The fire in fire place is calming down.
I could walk up to the fire place and put some wood into it.
As I could have written a letter earlier a bit and put life into him a bit: The Old man.
I go down into that night sometimes, when I, out of pity, put out a blank letter and my black inked pen.
I sat for hours in my comfort chair wishing to write something to comforting him.
I wished to write a poem , a funny story or just crafting a simple picture of his house.
But I hardly knew anything of him, all I knew was I lived the closest to him- to his house and to his life.
I was writing to a man living few yards away yet I was empty,
I was feeling as if I am indifferent to the men of society outside-empty of compassion for others.
After hours of absorption I filled the letter with the only real conversation we had each day.
It was just a word though, now as I think that word should have been enough, it was “cheers”.
I walked up to his letter box that night,
As I put the letter in I thought how would he feel the next day,
at least he will smile
but in a different way, and that will not be out of sigh.
Next day he would have smiled in a happy way.
I woke up early the next morning, I still remember that smile when I made my peg.
It was bright and blissful, I had forgotten the taste of that.
It never surprises me , As I still hardly could feel that splendidness.
That morning ,I thought for us would be different.
The chairs, the tea table, the bottle of whisky were there just as they were supposed to be.
But they were not empty!
In a people filled corridor with no yellow leaves,
they were not empty.
People with dress white, crying as if they lost someone special the before night.
The truth struck me then, the Old man was no more.
I was here , standing at my balcony , until the sun choose to leave too,
I saw those people leaving, and the house not how it was supposed to be.
chairs were not aligned to the tea table and bottle was not empty,
the timber door closed too.
Is it what people do! They dress fancy and walk in to your room.
they would put out their brush and paint you to be alone.
They walk out when you are out of color.
they never look back when you are pale and dull.
They never look back at your dusk.
And as you embrace the night, they, with same fancy dress , will walk in
they would sings songs of sympathy something you never chose.
I walked out of my balcony to my living room,
I had forgotten that I too had a letter box downstairs.
As I open it I found only letter there,
I was happy ,I read the name ‘The Old Man’.
I could have opened it then, at that very moment.
But I waited, waited till I soaked in the present.
As the flame of my fire place was as pale as it is right now.
Now as I think we were just like a mirror put in front of another one.
Blank to each other yet the same,
just a reflection of a wave of silence.
I Opened the letter and had the same smile The Old Man used to have,
a fizzling one, filled with regret, longing and tears.
The letter, as I remember precisely, Said ‘Cheers’.
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