August Fifteenth

Time runs by, chasing the hours, chasing the days, chasing the months and the years. It is yet another August fifteenth, thirty three years since, and not a moment goes by, without that passing thought, how different life would be,if it were not for that fateful day.

A day that dawned, like any other, with the promise of all good things, plans to celebrate the holiday, but life had a different scheme of things, a devious one. Everyone at home, special lunch prepared, a favourite of each, added to the menu . Waiting for the doorbell to ring, sat a mother at the table, for her child to return, a father watching the doorway, for his little girl to enter.

Finally, the sound of the bell, not the door but the phone. Alas, a death knell that put an end, to a way of life, as we had known. A tragedy that ripped the very foundation of our small family, changed each one of us, as a part died with her. The love, the laughter, our carefree days, buried under the weight of a bereavement, none too easy to bear. No celebration was ever the same, no happy moments, without the looming sadness .

Haunted by the loss, feeling cheated by destiny, viewing life with bitterness, we lived, often missing beautiful moments . The poor choices we made, a consequence of that dreadful day, some bearing bitter fruit, until this very day, bringing more sorrow, more anguish. Every August fifteenth, swamped by a wave of sorrow, remembering that awful Independence Day, that altered our lives irreversibly, binding us to grief, turning the axiom ‘this too shall pass‘, into a myth.

August fifteenth, a day we shared our grief as a family, memories of poignant moments and happy ones. But with the passing years, those close to her are gone, and am left alone carrying the burden. Often wondering, would it have been any different, would we have been better prepared, if forewarned ? What if it was a prolonged illness, would we have been reconciled ? Would she still be here, by my side, if it were not for that wretched day? All that is remaining, are questions, that can never be answered …