The 269th death.

[By Esha Jamal]

It was
On the wind of yesterday
That her fragrance came to me
When that closed book
Fell from my hands
Strewing forgotten petals
Of a long pressed rose
From between its pages
It was then
That I remembered her
Eyes that yearned
For once they too had dreamt
But when dreams remained dreams
And time kept passing
They were
Like everything else
Disburdened
From everyday

And as memory
Stole out
From where
Her hands had last
Imprisoned it
It was then
That I remembered her
For few now did
And few then did
Forgotten
Before she was gone…

Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea is to share with the world how you will like to be remembered after you are gone. (May you live a long life, of course!) Please mail me your self-obit, with a photo of you or your world, at mayankaustensoofi@gmail.com.