He just left, just like that...

He's gone, I know that, because someone told it to me and my mind
confirms that memory, while I wait for his mortal remains to be
brought to me to confirm it once again.
I have already faced that situation over and over in my mind. I see
him shroud in white, his face the way I remember watching while he'd
sleep.

It's a long wait.
The longest that time ever lasted.
The clock ticks on mechanically, night passes into day and the sun
rises, the birds chirp. The dawning of the day never interrupted by
the death of my father.
The birds come chirping at my window sill waiting to be fed by my
father. Even the birds had a right over his time, everyday, unlike me.
I go to get the feed, I place a few fistfuls on the sill. The birds
alight but don't eat. A couple of them peck at it, then they watch me
and I watch them equally curious. I think to them, your feeder isn't
coming back. Maybe they understand, maybe not. Then I move away and I
enter my own private hell.
But something shakes me out of it. It's sounds, too many people, but
one among them has brought me out of my despair, temporarily I bottle
up my grief. I call the family doctor, he arrives and then I tell him
everything. I register the shock on his face. I know why that
expression is plastered on his face longer than it should on any
doctor. He had checked my father's annual test results, just a couple
of days before his death and they were okay.

After he leaves, I stand sentinel over my mum's room, no one enters it
on my watch. My earlier sorrow has now transformed into a cause. My
mother needs to be away from the howling audiences.
I keep them at bay. They plead with me, they curse me, they accuse me.
They tell me that my mum must cry. I know better. I stay sharp. I coax
them away and at times shove away a few. My mother rests from the
tranquilising effects of the meds delivered into her.
Then the hour comes, I have to let them have an audience with her.
I restrict them when I can.

Finally the flow of people ebbs. I am slowly losing my courage. In the
final few quarters of the hour before they bring him, I lie down
beside my mum.
I am scared. For once I don't know how I will react. Will my mind
remain in my control? I know not. That scares me utmost.
I remember a few words of courage. At such a time, those words which
give me some hope are that of a friend's mother, she feels closer than
any blood relative.

I'm almost dragged to him amidst all the crowds. I excuse myself and
go to the restroom and borrow strength from the words of a loved one.
I emerge from the restroom with a renewed strength. Again there are
people holding me, prodding me, I shrug them off. I move closer to the
mortal remains of my father. I stand there, observing his serene
expressions. A brother holds me and makes me sit fearing that I might
faint. I don't. I just stare blankly. I see why I have so little space
to crouch beside him, as in life, so in death, too many people have a
right over him.
I notice mum crying, caressing his lifeless face which hasn't a single
expression of pain. His eyelids are ever so slightly open, like he
might just wake out of his slumber.
I brush off that thought, I do not wish to dwell upon such things.
That's for myself, later.

They take him away. I'm glad it wasn't a stark white shroud, but
instead a soft maroon blanket that I use daily.
I stay strong, for a while, then locking myself away from all, I cry
out in grief, yet it's gentler than my first screaming anguish of
denial and shock.
I've been practical for long enough.
Crowds swarm me, I calm down.
Again I look at my mum and bottle up.
There's a long way to go before I can rest.