In the Shower

The Pantene Pro V so belonged to her.
I am almost done with it,
have almost used it up--
one less object that she touched,
one less reminder daily of her beauty,
her long blond hair and its clean smell.
I can’t cry on cue the way he wants me to.
If I could I would do it here
in the shower
where the tears would wash down
the drain with my flakes of skin
and shedded hair.

I cry when I am about to enter our building
unlocking the front door with its big square key.
In the elevator I tip my face in the corner
where she will never stand again.

I feel more kinship with wartorn parents
whose children have been killed than
my next door neighbor with her two living daughters.

As my tears fall I think of the millions of others
who have grieved over the one they loved deepest.
My tears are but a tiny drop in an ocean
of salt water.
How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry