The Relapse of Grief

By Lavanya Jalan

I thought grief was loud.

screaming-into-pillows,

drowning-in-tea,

wearing-black kind of loud.

but it’s not.

it’s quiet.

it’s the absence

of sound.

like forgetting your favourite song

and not realizing until

you can’t hum it anymore.

they say time heals.

but time is a thief

with sticky fingers

and a smile that lies.

first it stole your laugh

that short, crooked chuckle

you always made after telling bad jokes.

I swore I’d never forget it.

but now it’s disjointed

like it belongs to someone else.

like it was never real.

just… a sound I made up

to keep you alive longer.

then your face

started melting.

yeah.

like wax on an old candle

too tired to hold its shape.

in dreams, your features blur.

your eyes become someone else’s.

and I wake up

feeling like a traitor

to your memory.

we were swinging

on those rusted school swings,

backs arched to the sky,

feet kicking clouds,

you told me a secret.

you swore me to silence

and I swore I'd never forget.

but now..

I don’t remember

what you said.

just the sound of the chains creaking.

just your smile,

half-shadow, half-sunlight.

god, what did you say?

photos?

they lie too.

they don’t move.

they don’t breathe.

they don’t laugh

when the camera turns off.

and I stare at them

hoping they’ll blink

just once

but they never do.

this is the relapse of grief.

not the sobbing.

not the funeral.

not the flowers that died faster than you did.

it’s the forgetting.

the slow fade.

the betrayal of memory.

how your voice now is distorted,

and your smile doesn’t show up

unless I close my eyes

real tight

and even then

it’s not right.

it’s not you.

and the worst part is

I don’t even know

what I’ve forgotten.

but I feel the missing.

God, do I feel the missing.

and that?

that’s what kills me.

not that you’re gone.

but that someday,

you might be

completely.

By Lavanya Jalan