Write Stuff

What I Remember
by AW

I remember the way life felt lighter
when you were beside me.
The trips we took with no real plan,
just roads, laughter, and borrowed time.

I remember the jokes—
the silly ones, the quiet ones,
the kind that lived between us
and needed no audience.

I remember sitting by the roadside with friends,
smoke in the air,
grilled fish shared by hand,
dreams scattered on newspaper,
planning a wedding we thought was so far away.

I remember sharing one ice cream,
arguing about flavours,
letting it melt faster than we could eat it.
Going to the movies,
your hand finding mine in the dark,
as if it always knew where to go.

I remember our wedding day—
your smile before your words,
the way the world seemed to pause
just long enough for us to say yes.

I remember holding hands through ordinary days,
through tired evenings and hopeful mornings,
through moments that didn’t feel special then
but shine now.

I remember the day our children were born,
your awe, your fear, your joy
all living in the same breath.
The long nights,
the shared exhaustion,
the quiet victories of parenthood
we faced together.

I remember who you were—
your strength, your kindness,
the love you gave so easily.
And even now, in this stillness,
that is what stays with me.

Because memories do not fade
when the world goes quiet.
They wait.
They breathe.
They remind me
that you are still here—
in everything I remember.

Between What Was and What May Be
By AW

He breathes again into this world,
slowly, like dawn learning its own name.
Machines grow quieter, prayers grow louder,
and hope tiptoes back into the room
afraid to wake the fear beside it.

They say he’s coming back,
but no one can tell me how.
Will he return as the man I know by heart,
or as a stranger wearing his face?
Will his hands remember how to hold our children,
or will they lie still, heavy with unanswered questions?

I watch his eyes for recognition,
searching for us in their depths.
Will he know my name,
our stories,
the life we built from ordinary days?
Or will memory slip through him
like water through open fingers?

I am brave in front of the children.
I smile. I explain. I promise tomorrow.
But when night comes,
I sit with the weight of what if.
What if love must learn a new language?
What if strength becomes our daily currency?
What if nothing is the same again?

I fear the future because it has no shape.
No map. No guarantees.
Only questions that echo softly:
How will we cope?
Who will I become?
How much can a heart stretch before it breaks?

And yet —
he is here.
Alive.
Trying.
And so are we.

Between what was and what may be,
I stand holding both fear and faith,
learning that uncertainty does not cancel love.
It only asks us to love harder,
deeper,
even when we are afraid.

When We Look at You, Thaththi
By AW

They tell us you are waking up,
slowly, like the sun behind thick clouds.
We nod, because that sounds like good news,
but we don’t know what waking up really means.

We stand very still near your bed.
We whisper, just in case noise hurts you.
We wonder if you can hear us
when we say your name the way we always did.

Will you know us when you open your eyes?
Will you remember the jokes,
the nicknames,
the way you used to call us from the gate?
We are scared you might look at us
and not see home.

Amma tells us to be brave.
She smiles even when her eyes are tired.
So we smile too.
But inside, our hearts ask questions
we don’t know how to ask adults.

Will you run with us again?
Will you hold our hands the same way?
If you can’t,
will you still love us just as much?

We are learning that life can change suddenly,
without asking children first.
That grown-ups don’t always have answers.
That love sometimes waits in hospital rooms
and hopes very quietly.

But we want you to know this, Thaththi—
even if you forget our names,
even if your body feels different,
even if everything feels new to you,

we will remind you.
We will learn again together.
We will love you loudly if you cannot speak,
and strongly if you feel weak.

Please come back to us,
whatever way you can.
We are right here.
We have been waiting.

*Reply from Thaththi:*
I hear you,
even when my eyes are slow to open,
even when my body forgets its strength.
Your voices find me
in places I didn’t know were still awake.

If my hands tremble,
it is not because I don’t know you.
If my words take time,
it is not because you are lost to me.
Some things live deeper than memory,
and you live there.

I may walk differently.
I may speak carefully,
like someone learning a language again.
But my heart has not forgotten
how to belong to you.

Do not be afraid if I look confused.
I am only finding my way back.
Do not think my love is weaker
because my body is tired.
Love does not live in muscles or movement—
it lives in the places that survive everything.

If I cannot run,
I will still watch you grow.
If I cannot lift you,
I will still hold you in every way that matters.
If I forget a story,
tell it to me again—I will listen.

You are not a burden to my healing.
You are the reason for it.
Every breath I take is pulled forward
by the thought of you.

Stay close.
Be patient with me,
as I learn myself again.
No matter how this future unfolds,
I am still your Thaththi.

I am here.
I am trying.
And I love you—
completely,
forever.

“Are You There, God?”
by AW

I speak to You tonight without folded hands,
without the right words,
without strength.
Only questions sit beside me,
heavy as the days I keep surviving.

Did I walk the wrong paths, God?
Did I miss a lesson You were trying to teach?
I tried to be kind.
I tried to do right.
I tried to carry my share without complaint.
So tell me—was it not enough?

Why do the burdens keep arriving
before I have set the last one down?
Why does sorrow seem to know my name
so well, so personally?
Each time I rise, another weight waits,
as if my shoulders were chosen on purpose.

I look back at my life like a ledger,
searching for the sin that earned this pain.
If this is punishment, tell me for what.
If this is a test, tell me how long.
If this is faith, why does it feel
so much like being abandoned?

I am tired, God.
Not the kind of tired sleep can fix—
the kind that seeps into the bones,
that makes hope feel expensive
and breathing feel like work.

Everyone says You are near,
but the silence is loud.
I speak, and the echo returns my voice
instead of Yours.
Are You listening,
or am I praying into emptiness?

Tonight the load is too heavy.
My knees are bending.
My heart is bruised.
And I am scared of how alone I feel
even while saying Your name.

If You are there, God,
I don’t need answers yet.
I don’t need miracles or explanations.
I just need a sign—
a whisper, a pause in the pain,
a reminder that I am seen.

Because I can carry many things,
but I cannot carry the thought
that I am carrying them alone.

So I ask You plainly, without pride:
Are You there, God?
And if You are…
please don’t be silent tonight.

Between Your Blinks
By AW

You have opened your eyes,
and the room breathed in all at once.
Light touches you now,
but it doesn’t seem to land.
Your gaze passes through walls,
through me,
as if you are looking for a door
only you can see.

I stand beside your bed
and speak your name anyway.
I tell you small things—
how the children asked about you,
how the world is still waiting,
how I am still here.
I talk because love doesn’t know
how to be silent.

I wonder where you are.
Are you inside that quiet body,
crowded with thoughts you cannot send out?
Are you remembering us—
the sound of our laughter,
the weight of our hands in yours,
the life we were in the middle of living?

Your eyes do not answer.
They stare into somewhere far away,
and it breaks my heart
to not know if you can see me crying,
if you can hear me begging you
to come back.

This is not how you were meant to be—
not this still,
not this distant.
You were movement, voice, warmth.
You were presence.
You were here.

I wish I could reach inside the silence,
take your hand wherever you are,
and guide you home—
back to your name,
back to our children’s faces,
back to the man we love
exactly as he was before.

Until then,
I will sit beside you.
I will keep talking.
I will keep believing
that somewhere behind those unfocused eyes,
you are listening,
remembering,
finding your way back to us.

Still Standing
by Anusha Wicks

My body wakes before my strength does,
bones heavy with yesterday’s worry,
heart already tired before the day begins.
Sleep no longer rests me—
it only pauses the fear.

Hospital walls live inside my mind now,
machines breathing where you should be,
your silence louder than any sound.
I talk to you anyway,
because loving you doesn’t know how to stop.

Bills stack like unanswered prayers,
numbers blur, deadlines press their fingers into my chest.
I calculate futures that refuse to settle,
wondering how long hope can stretch
before it starts to ache.

I am mother, provider, fixer, shield—
roles I never rehearsed for,
carried by arms that shake but do not drop.
There is no one to lean into at night,
only the quiet weight of responsibility beside me.

Some days my tears don’t fall anymore.
They sit behind my eyes, exhausted,
like even grief has run out of energy.
I move through hours on instinct,
doing what must be done because it must be done.

And still—
I show up.
With a tired body and a bruised heart,
I show up.

Because love doesn’t disappear in comas.
Because strength sometimes looks like trembling hands
that keep going anyway.
Because even when the future is a locked door,
I stand in front of it, breathing, waiting, enduring.

I am drained.
I am afraid.
I am alone.

And somehow,
I am still here.