Departure

 It's been a month

you went away.
You have gone before,
many times for weeks
at stretch.
Returning
with bags full
of sweets and snacks
myriad knick knacks.
Often you had traveled
without a return ticket,
keeping room
for change in plans.
Insisting I keep looking
for dip in flight fares.
But,
the flight you took this time
is too expensive, too far
I cannot buy a return ticket .
The plans are frozen.
You will not return,
but remain.

Absence

 The household runs in clockwork precision

Hot and fresh breakfast, lunch, dinner
on the table, on time.
Every recipe measured and perfect
Each one served to their tastes.
School, office, groceries
Everything is on schedule
Maid, gardener, driver
all show up,
not punctual
but not too late.
Washing, ironing, arranging
clothes defy the slightest crease.
I have allowed nothing to cease.
The house you left behind
is filled with activities.
It is the home that's in chaos.
Forlorn.
Quiet.
Soulless.
Empty of your presence,
wrapped in uncertain, unease.
The life goes on.
Grief is transient
everyone will survive.
The household will keep breathing,
but the home won't be alive.

Last Rite

You flow in the Ganges,
formless, fearless, free.
I take a tentative dip,
alienated, afraid, alone.
I hold the breath,
closing eyes to wet grief.
You are weightless.
You dance on gentle waves,
basking in the golden sun.
I am weighed down
with vague uncertainty.
Not knowing how to swim,
afraid of drowning,
I rush back
to humid, crowded shore.