Perfect Day
As a child, I often wondered
How death would take hold
Of my final sigh.
And I would often imagine
It would happen on a perfect day—
Where the perfect egg is cooked,
Laundry already folded,
No quarrels heard in the neighborhood,
Weather pristine, with no hint of gloomy clouds.
And I’d lay there in tranquility,
Like a baby taking her first peaceful nap.
And on the second day of my departure,
Somewhere between breath and stillness,
I would hear the first few cries
Of the woman who had birthed me,
Together with the man who made —
And destroyed — me.
And for the first time in a while,
I would hear no feud,
No screams, nor chaos,
Only regret, repent, and resolve —
Words I have always yearned to hear.
Then days... months... years will pass.
Their grief would soon soften into acceptance.
The daughter would become a distant memory
and life moves on, delving into new tales in her absence.
No one would speak of her anymore,
except on days approaching her anniversary.
Her untouched clothes donated to charity,
her arts simply disposed,
her photos kept in an album, locked in the attic.
Image of her face - peppered with ever changing hair, erased without trace —
all because she left on a perfect day.
_________________
Image credits to movie, One Day
How death would take hold
Of my final sigh.
And I would often imagine
It would happen on a perfect day—
Where the perfect egg is cooked,
Laundry already folded,
No quarrels heard in the neighborhood,
Weather pristine, with no hint of gloomy clouds.
And I’d lay there in tranquility,
Like a baby taking her first peaceful nap.
And on the second day of my departure,
Somewhere between breath and stillness,
I would hear the first few cries
Of the woman who had birthed me,
Together with the man who made —
And destroyed — me.
And for the first time in a while,
I would hear no feud,
No screams, nor chaos,
Only regret, repent, and resolve —
Words I have always yearned to hear.
Then days... months... years will pass.
Their grief would soon soften into acceptance.
The daughter would become a distant memory
and life moves on, delving into new tales in her absence.
No one would speak of her anymore,
except on days approaching her anniversary.
Her untouched clothes donated to charity,
her arts simply disposed,
her photos kept in an album, locked in the attic.
Image of her face - peppered with ever changing hair, erased without trace —
all because she left on a perfect day.
_________________
This piece was heavily influenced when I’ve been asked what would a perfect day look like to me. Honestly, it was a trip down to memory lane because it reminded me of the book I read its movie adaptation - “One Day” by David Nicholls - specifically about that perfect day with Emma Morley.
_________________Image credits to movie, One Day
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