The Arrow of Love

My feedreader is overflowing with unread pieces. My Netflix documentary remains unseen for weeks. The weekly magazines are barely skimmed. I don't know where my library check-outs are. Personal time and space are lost. But the loss has flown into something more beautifully indescribable. When I wake up at 2 in the morning to sing a boring song without a hint of scale or tempo, my daughter listens as if that's the only sound that will put her to sleep. And the tiredness and frustration resulting from hours of sleeplessness melt away at her smile. And when she pulls the hair off my forehand when she cries, it isn't really painful. The disappearance of her blissful smile as soon as I focus my camera isn't that disappointing.

All the things that my wife and I do to keep her happy, healthy, safe, comfortable, asleep & active have heigtened my respect for my parents. I never realized the amount of work involved in caring for an infant can be done with such eagerness. I'll never be able to reciprocate the emotional investment my parents have made in me. Same way, I'll have to accept that my daughter will be able to unconditionally give all of herself only to her children (if & when) but not her parents.

Insomnia

By the time I hit the bed, she was in the middle of her journey. I slowly moved the hair strands at the back of her neck. Her weight has been oscillating for a while now, a constant flux around her tummy and cheeks. But her neck, which I remember how it was exactly since I met her, has remained the same size.

There are some events, which are of absolutely no significance that have stayed in my mind. I recall an evening when she was talking to our neighbour. Nothing special about the day: neither breezy nor sultry; nothing special about her appearance: neither flashy nor simple; nothing special about her mannerisms: neither forced nor natural. But then, I remember almost every movement she made then, from her shift in balance to hair adjustments, from her lazily elegant leaning on a wall to a semi-brisk walk, from her lullaby of a silence to her cascade-flow words. A happy life, I think is constituted by a collection of such undecorated but memorable, insignificant but worthwhile events.

Forgiveness

A snowy evening. The shade of darkness was changing slowly. It was a small cottage in the woods, lit by lanterns with all the wilderness observing it. There was a water falls nearby and one had to walk at least ten minutes from the cottage to get to the bottom of the falls and the water ran deep into the forest. An owl glanced at the moon which was partially visible beyond the dark clouds. Silence engulfed the sound of falling water and croaking frogs.

He watched a fox pass through the creek. She was preparing a salad with the nameless leaves they had gathered that afternoon. They had spoken very less since they got to the cottage. Words seemed ineffective and futile when there is complete acceptance. Opening the mouth and producing a sound is an extravaganza. She came over and sat next to him. He wiped her tears and kissed her gently, very gently.

-- Originally written for LJ on 25-12-2004