The soil is still fresh, a dark wound in the earth,
the ink on the ledger is older, deeper,
a map of costs we never asked for,
though inevitable.
You told me once, breath thinned
by the hospital hum,
“Keep the roof steady, even if the foundation shakes.”
I gave you my word
in a room that smelled of antiseptic and endings.
Now, the silence you left
is filled with the scream of sirens,
a flickering screen,
the cold click of a calculator at midnight.
The mailbox is a mouth
that only knows how to bite.
Red-inked notices,
final warnings,
the frantic pulse of late fees,
tax returns,
they say the grid doesn’t care about grief,
only the flow of transfers,
the clearing of checks.
I sit where you sat,
under the dim glow of a lamp
barely able to keep burning,
unraveling the knots of frauds,
“missing” funds,
suspense accounts,
weak controls,
ghosts in the bytes
stealing what little
that people have saved.
I am the shield now,
who filters the bad news
before it reaches the kitchen table.
I tell her the lights flickered
because of the wind,
not because I was pleading
with a voice on a headset
to give us ten more days, just ten.
I shoulder the weight of prescriptions,
measuring out health in milligrams and rupees,
trading my sleep for her peace of mind.
It’s a heavy coat to wear,
this responsibility,
tailored in the midst of a financial storm.
There are days I want to scream
at the empty chair,
to ask how you carried it all
without breaking.
But then I see the way the house stays warm,
the way the table is set,
how the cutlery is arranged,
the way the chaos stays outside the front door
because I am holding it shut.
I am the bridge you built
before you fell.
I am the promise kept
in the quiet grind,
turning turmoil
into a steady,
stubborn survival.
Sleep well, old man.
The walls are still standing.
The bills are paid.
Your need fulfilled.
The nest is safe.