Grandma`s Death

 When I entered the living room,
Through the rear door,
She was still alive,
And heard her almost mumble, ‘Kollo…’

Mistaken me for my father, her son.

I slipped in,
Without saying so much as a word,
For I was used,
To taking her grumbles for granted.

Perhaps I was insensitive,
To the plain fact that her voice,
Was more markedly feeble than ever.

When I walked past her bed again,
She lay facing the wall,
Next to the bed,
Her right hand, almost limp,
Stretched outwards to her right,
Rested on the bed.

I convinced myself
She was breathing yet;

It was when Aunt Rani, our benign neighbor,
Pronounced her dead,
That I began to doubt myself.

Perhaps, this was the way to die:
No final words, no last will,
No lachrymose leave-taking;

Now she was alive,
Now dead.