It’s 14 years today,
And I still recall the last time I saw you. I wish my life had turned out as polished as the suit you wore.
But I’m not here to dwell on that.
It’s 14 years today,
And I am 25, still living at the place you gave us to call home. I moved back here months after quitting a job I found draining. It has turned out to be a phase I am enjoying, especially because I get to bond with your wife a little more. I must say I might probably be buying myself extra time with her.
It’s 14 years today,
And there are 3 new Njoroge’s in the family. Don’t be surprised! Your children make incredible parents. They must have borrowed parenting skills from you and mom. Personally, I’m still trynna figure out if I want to travel the world or settle down. The latter sounds confining and like it would demand too much commitment. I’ll let you know my stand by the next decade.
It’s 14 years today,
And we have all learnt to embrace the echoes of your absence. Your sons barely speak about their grief, but I see it in the shadows of every conversation. Thank you for making two daughters; we intertwine in the way we cope. And your bride, I caught her staring at your portrait the other day. I dared not ask what she felt, afraid of ripping open the wound of losing a lover. It’s a load I wish she didn’t have to carry.
It’s 14 years today,
And I’m now a poet. I’ve written hundreds of lines, making you my muse. I hope you don’t mind. I mean, you introduced me to this grief side way too early. How else was I supposed to let out my frustrations?
It’s 14 years today,
And your siblings are now ageing. One moved away, while our relationship with them has been bittersweet. You know how your family can be!
It’s 14 years today,
I would love to tell you about church, but you might not like what I have to say, so we shall pass that one for today.
All updates aside,
It’s been 14 years today,
And you are terribly missed. How could you tire of breathing? Anyway, I love you immensely, before and after your absence.
Love,
Wanja.