After a long time I am giving in to the creative bug. Here’s a short story that I’m writing. Not sure how this is going to end. But hopefully in the process of typing it out, I may stumble upon the real meaning of forgiveness.
She was dying. The doctor had revealed that there was no hope; it was just a matter of time before she breathed her last. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears. But when I saw brother approaching the chamber, I had to quickly wipe them away. I broke the news to him as gently as I could, and yet he collapsed into my arms. I could see he was also fighting hard to get a grip on his emotions, but it was traumatic for both of us to realize that mother would leave us soon. I thought of father and wondered if we should tell him about her condition. He was not in the best of health either. With mother not being around at home for a few months now, it was tough to keep him happy and comfortable. He didn’t mention it, but I did feel that he was missing her.
It hurt when I used to sometimes see him calling out to mother, only to remember that she was not at home. “Is she alive?” father used to ask and in response brother had that snarky look on his face as if to convey, “You’d rather want her dead, wouldn’t ya?” Father could sense it, and I could sense his hurt. But it was of no use, they had been at loggerheads for years now. There was nothing that I could do to reduce their pain, and the distance that seemed to grow between them with each passing day. Mother had somehow managed to keep the family together, but in her absence I could see things getting worse. [To be continued]