“Dearest.”
“And did you get what you wanted from life even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself Beloved. To feel myself beloved on earth.” — Raymond Carver, Late Fragment.
It was the Darkest of times. Light had not yet been created. God was busy imagining his future creation when a word escaped his mouth. For ages, the word wafted through chaos. It wandered across the universe, crossed several billion light years and reached me on a cold December night as I lay nestled in my mother’s arms.
For time immemorial the word had considered itself as a grave mistake. Until it found me. I gave it purpose. It finally had something to cling on to, something to flourish on. It kept me safe, loved and warm even in the coldest of times. It booed at my bullies and kicked my enemies asses. It became my weapon of invincibility.
Upon my death, the word felt forsaken. It grieved my loss until it grew frail. My absence made its existence meaningless. So, one December night, when the air was rich with the smell of freshly mowed grass, my willowy word wafted to my grave and etched itself under my name. The rose that stood a few yards away, upon witnessing this offering of love, bloomed in the dark.
© Namitha Ann Thomas.
