What Do I Have of You?

A friend recently asked me,
what did he leave behind?
Not the inheritance of money and objects,
but the inheritance of idiosyncrasies and habits.

I have pondered days and nights and maybe,
I have his memories, stories and DNA.
But, memories deceive me,
and the stories have evolved,
DNA as an answer is broad
and boring. So I say,
“I think I have his tastes,”
And soon fell short of words,
took the spoon, stirred
the coffee. Taste is a wonderful word.

A futile attempt I would say,
that is what the answer was.
An attempt of lying to others and
myself. That coffee was bland,
the conversation as torturous as May.

When I try remembering you,
the times of despair haunt me,
the time my mother almost jumped.
My brothers and were left I stunned,
unable to move, to pursue
her to stop. A decade has passed
since you’ve been gone,
two weeks since the exchange.
And now I have filled the page
with this poem. I feel harassed.

So, what do I have of you?
I think and think and think.
Does this crumbling house count?
Spoiled from within, cracking on the out.

I have absolutely no clue.

Vishakha Singh is pursuing an MA in English Literature from IGNOU, while also working at IIT Kanpur as a writer/researcher and Assistant Director for a documentary series on Organic Farming.

Featured image: Jun/Unsplash