The small things always get me.

You won’t be standing in your balcony anymore. I won’t wave at you from across the road while I wait to cross and you catch my eye. In the wee hours of the morning, I won’t hear your rubber slippers clapping against the concrete downstairs. In the night, there will be no sounds from your house next door – no opening and shutting of cupboards, or thuds on the floor from a book falling.

The newspaper carried your picture today. You were smiling and that’s how everyone remembers you. They said you will be buried today at 4. It sounds alien. It makes me lean out of my window and look towards yours to make sure that this isn’t a mistake. It isn’t. The curtains are drawn.

Everyone around you hoped that there’d be an end to your suffering. They prayed for your pain to cease. And it did. There’s only relief here on.