It’s
been nearly two years since my uncle suffered from a brain stroke. Between
hospital walls and quiet rooms, he’s been living in stillness, but not in
silence. The family, never once absent, continued showing up, showing me what
unconditional love really looks like. Their loyalty, their presence, their
quiet strength still amazes me. However, just few days back, mum said she’s
been told that his heartbeat’s been growing weaker. Then gently asked if I
could reach out, not with words, but with soul.
So,
I sat and listened. Climbed up into that quiet space where spirits meet. But I
didn’t end up somewhere celestial. I found myself… back in my aunt’s bedroom.
And there he was, not saying a thing, but everything was in his gaze. The
way he looked at her, that quiet ache of not being able to fix things
anymore. Not being able to follow her to the places they once explored or sit
through small talk that used to fill the nights. That kind of quiet reluctance
only love over decades can carry.
We
spoke, not with voices, but the kind of knowing that doesn’t need them. I
asked, “What about the kids?” He smiled softly, “They’re okay. I raised them
well. I’m proud”. I don’t know why the tears came rushing then. Maybe it was
because for a moment, I wondered if my parents would ever say the same about me.
Maybe it was the way he still sat beside love, even in the in-between. I
asked if he was ready to let go.
He didn’t
answer immediately. He just looked at my aunt again and whispered, “Let me
sit with her a few more moments”. And my tears didn’t stop.