Eighty-Seven

Poem

Today you would have been eighty-seven,
and I can almost hear you—
that laugh that filled a room like light through lace,
the sly grin that said more truth
than a sermon ever could.
You had a way of being tender and defiant
all at once—
irreverence dressed in grace.

You left without warning,
no soft fade, no final word.
Just absence—sudden,
a silence too sharp to hold.
We were robbed of goodbye,
but not of love.
That, you left everywhere—
stitched into the folds of memory,
the scent of your favorite daal,
the echo of your voice in my stubbornness.

People who knew you young
tell me stories now—
of the fire in your eyes,
the mischief, the wit that could
slice and soothe in the same breath.
Their words are my fuel,
squinting to see you again—
before the weight of years,
before the sadness overtook your sanity.

You taught me to stand tall,
to steer my own ship
even when the water turns black.
That happiness isn’t handed out—
it’s chosen, forged,
hammered into being by will alone.
You made me strong enough
to carry your lessons,
and soft enough to still cry for you.

I miss your laughter,
your sarcasm, your smile—
the way you filled every space of my soul
with color and chaos and truth.
But I know you’d hate to see me crumble.
You’d tell me to put on lipstick,
straighten my spine,
and live.

This I do, every day,
I choose joy because you told me to.
I build peace because you taught me how.
And when I dream I love you into the quiet,
I know you hear me—
because love,
unlike life,
doesn’t need permission to stay.

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