The hand that gave her strength. Strength to travel to and fro, from one sickbed to another; strength to take care of her mother, to smile at her brother….strength, to piece back together when she wailed for hours on end in the dark of the night. It had been tough. It had been torturing. Yet, that hand… that hand of love and care… that hand of hope, guided her through it all.
Clutching at that same hand she falls asleep one night. In the early hours of morn, she rises to an unnerving silence. A chill runs down her spine as she notices his grip slackening. She stares into that frail worn face searching for that trace, that glint to know that he was there. His eyes blank, he stares at the ceiling; unmoving, unaware…
Was it for real? Had her dreaded nightmare finally come true? And slowly it creeps…its silence surging softly through the household. She arises…her strength, her faith and her hope along with him; seem to have faded into oblivion.
People pour in. A voice calls out, “The body needs to be covered.” She feels the brush of several arms as he is carried out…she tries to reach out to his hand, and fails. She strokes his hair, as if to console him. That single stroke speaks a thousand unspoken words. “It will all be okay, papa. We all love you. I love you.”
Was it really going to be okay? The question, with the smell of his corpse, hangs heavy in the air. Others rush in pushing her into a corner. Some wailing, some consoling. Some telling her to not lose faith, others telling her to piece herself together. Someone says it was bound to happen.
Another voice with its advice and another and another…
It all seems a daze as zombie like she walks, losing herself among the wails…..
This is a true incident.