... And then there is loss
Which doesn't explain itself.
Some kind of silly arithmetic logic,
Division that partitions lives.
But boxes don't hold bodies,
And fires don't swallow flesh.
Souls are immortal or so they say
like mummified containers filled with anti-death preservatives.
But whose to say it isn't already dearly departed.
When breaths become a mere measurement of ventilator puffs
And the mind begins to disconnect from limbs..
A picture in my mind will forever rest,
A memory box will sketch a new stick figure - -
Of flesh and skin and blood and bones and hair and fingernails.
A creature fueled by a soul.
Immortal in spirit, frozen in time.
When curls were brown, breath was regular and mind secure.
When the heart beat in rhythm to unpolluted seasons.
When Kasauli and Rauni were homes alive with shrubberies not weeds.
When cancer and bipolar were definitions only medical manuals explained.
When songs, dance and long walks was the only prescription drug for the day.
A reflection in the mirror that no breath can cloud over,
Lucky few can see the bloodline alive in them as I do.
You meant life Nana Nani, more alive than the picture on the wall.
The clouds hold your lives now, as children of the sky.
RIP
Sukh Sekhon
Sohan Singh Sekhon
