I stood on the grass, ruffling my hands on the almost barren chrysanthemum tree, waiting for her.
It is only a few more minutes away, the moment I keep coming back to, year after year for almost a decade now.
An incident flashes over me, so very fresh in my mortal cells.
An excerpt from the winter, when I had the chance to take her out.
I had presumed she too, like all the girls I had dated before, must be fond of roses.
With the day already pre-planned in my diary of daydreaming, I spent months organizing the most perfect date I could attend.
From my hairstyle, to what I was going to wear. From where we shall meet to wherein lies the best cuisine of the town.
And yes, from where I shall buy those roses to greet her with.
The fateful day arrived, with only misery written on my fortune.
Bedridden, with high fever and typhoid, all the dreams of my beautifully crafted world fell apart, piece by piece.
The bathroom was the only entity I was entitled to date, and medicines were the only kisses I was served by two strict, yet caring eyes of my mother.
I had been lamenting and cursing my luck when there was a ring on our doorbell.
It was her.
Within a few minutes, she was there, postured beside my bed with one of her palms checking the temperature of my forehead.
On the table, lay a Chrysanthemum flower.
"These beautiful Chrysanthemums, do they survive these harsh winters?" I had asked.
"Yes, I love them, and care for them, in return they bloom for me, even in winter."
"And if they don't?"
"Then I ruffle their barren branches and wait for the melody of summer to arrive"
Those days of my illness were perhaps the most special dates I ever had.
We exchanged letters, which slowly became love letters. The day I was back at university, we kissed for the first time.
Ever since she never left my hand....
.
I pull my shawl closer, tighter over my, now-tattered Kurta.
It has so much of her smell, the imprints of her heart smeared all over it.
My smartphone rings out. It is past twelve.
I placed the Chrysanthemum bouquet by the tombstone with a small note I wrote her this year.
"Another year has passed, these winters, they shall never be the same again"
Those were the winters of '71.
Looking into the locket of our love, I mutter to myself "You are still with me, aren't you?".....
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Mirror Of Me | Poetry ✔
Poetry[a poetry collection] a dance to the fleeting emotions, notes to the music of life, a story of everything felt and told yet still, so many stories; so very untold. Of nights spent in solace of people so much more. Rankings: 🥇#poetry...
