Missing Peter
I woke up this morning feeling very melancholy. The sun had not risen yet. The skies were a dreary grey, fitting my mood. My heart feels as if it is squeezed so hard, that I can hardly breathe. It comes out in little gasps. I am scrunched into a little ball from the sheer pain of it. It is holiday time, the most difficult time to feel so alone. I miss my Peter.
I remembered when my adopted Khaloo Edward, my ex-husband’s uncle lay on the hospital bed dying. Peter and I had gone to visit. He smiled a little smile when he saw us. We each stood on either side of his bed. We each held one of his hands.
“How are you feeling Khaloo?” Peter asked him, solicitously.
“That I am ready to leave. Suzette is calling me,” he answered.
Not too long after, he passed away. “Peter, when are you going to call me? When?” I thought in despair this morning? Just then an exquisite piano piece of Chopin drifted out of the radio. It enveloped me and calmed me down.
“You have more to do before you leave,” a voice in my head said. I raised my head from the pillow and listened to the music. When it was done, I slowly rose and sat on my usurped shabby pink armchair. After a while I came downstairs for my cup of tea.