Every morning I wake up & promise myself that I'll fill up my day to its fullest capacity, that I'd consume myself mentally with books & puzzles, and physically by riding to my last drop of energy, ..that I'd leave no time for the mind to dwell on the last times..

The last words I heard from her,
The last things I said to her,
The last time I saw her,

& the promise I made to her, ..& never fulfilled.

This may sound a bit odd, but the last memory I have of her is not of her in her wedding gown, nor the child-talk that she so often had with her baby; no, the last memory is of the timid girl, in a fluttering gray skirt who asked me to share her desk on my first day of school, its the girl who never spoke ill of anyone, and loved everyone, the one who taught me FLAMES, the girl who spent hours comparing her finger nails to everyone else's, & promised that if hers don't grow by the time she grows up, she'll go for acrylics.

She never did,
& her nails never grew either.

Its been many days, but the news of her death refuses still to sink in. Not a single part of my conscious believes it, or rather, wants to believe it. I dialed her number hoping to hear her voice at the other end, & even though she didn't pickup; clinching to my tattered threads of hope I made-believe that her son is keeping her busy.

..And I did my part, I kept myself busy, adopted the opportunistic approach & kept myself open to just about anything & everything: lunches with friends? Dinner with other friends? Check. Celebrations and exuberant gatherings? Check. Conversing with the familiar & with complete strangers? Check. Complete & utter solitude? Check that one too.

She's still not answering my calls.

In life, we mourn our loss & somehow move on, but, if your mind hasn't registered it as a loss, if you don't believe you've lost something, or someone; if your tears won't submit, how do you mourn, & how do you move on?

She's still the girl,
The girl in the fluttering skirt..

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device