The name on the cell screen made me jump. It had to be bad news. And it was. Another death in the family. This time a cousin brother, the youngest of us all. Life had blown us in different directions following some family issues between elders. These sadly affect the younger ones who have not much say and get swayed in spite of themselves. The last time we met was at a family wedding. We tried to catch up but too much water had flown under the proverbial bridge.
in less than six months. Two deaths of persons younger than me is a lot to deal with. C'est la vie as it is said. I had not thought of this cousin for a long, long time. Yet today memories have come rushing, and surprisingly all of them are happy and warm. Estranged or not we had once been close, or let me say as close as two people born almost 15 years apart can be. Hundreds of sepia pictures tucked away in an old chest are proof of that. But before letting my mind wander in the past, I decided to browse the Internet to find out more about him. The little boy I knew had come a long way. I was happy to see that he had made his mark in the journey he chose for himself and was held in high esteem. Sadly I had not known the grown up man.
Pictures of him showed a handsome man in the prime of life. I sadly had no memories of this person. To me he remains the curly head bonny boy that one liked cuddling and spoiling. He had lived with us for some time when I was a college going girl and he barely ready for school. His baby talk was endearing and I loved spending time with him as he romped around the house.Then we must have a few times fleetingly as memories of these are hazy and blurred. To me he will always remain the little bonny boy who was the youngest of us all.
To think he is no more is almost surreal. Children are not meant to die and to me he is and will remain a child. Maybe I will unlock the old chest that is the repository of my sepia memories and look for pictures of the happy times we shared.
As I write these words I am filled with an incomprehensible sadness. I wonder if we should have tried to mend broken bridges in spite of all our elders and built our own. Maybe we should have. But what is the point of crying over spilled milk. The one lesson one can learn is to follow one's heart no matter what others say!