Candles on Her Grave

by Basanti Timalsina

Like every year
this year too
I am travelling miles.
With a heavy heart,
a dark numbness,
and a blurring memory
that I try hard to keep from fading.

This is a deserted place
In some unnamed grassland
away from human dwelling.
This place has seen me growing old
as I greet it every spring.
But it has always been the same
welcoming me with
cool breeze and
grassland full of wild purple flowers.

Her grave lies near the broken fence
on the southern corner
I can picture her inner frame
motionless under those heap of
thousand river rocks.

I can remember that night
when I placed those rocks neatly
upon her lifeless body.
Her teen face was shining white.
The full moon added more to it.
And the stars were witness to my deed.

As I stand now
beside my sacred memorial
my arthritic knee surge with pain
reminding of my last days.
I light six candles upon her grave
and look at my wrinkled fingers.
The same fingers
that took life out of her and
have been lighting candles
for past 50 years.

As I start to leave for home
to my sick wife
I think of returning back
the next year.
I wave at moon and stars
and the fireflies bid me farewell.

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