If the invisible would be so kind
as to give me a second chance—
I wouldn’t start over.
Weariness would send me
to the thoughtless years
where finish lines blur.
I want no more, no less
than a timely jolt of self-awareness,
an aerial view of insecurity.
Then I’d spare us ambition’s torture.
I’d tell you stories of rewired brains
through the rustling of your newspaper.
I’d ramble less and probe more,
knowing your clever conversation dodge—
“Hmm.”
I’d care for the plants, cook with you.
No screen could steal my attention.
I’d notice the birds, wake to their chirping—
your idea of a morning alarm.
The balcony would cradle a lifeless pigeon;
I’d weep with you.
Gratitude would cherish the unspeaking love
content beneath the weight of duty.
I’d thank you more for the secret pocket money,
the early arrivals to fetch me.
I wonder how you passed the time, waiting.
That torn leather belt, the worn-out kurta—
they’d no longer be things to be ashamed of.
I’d preserve them as sacred belongings.
The one time you broke down,
your head resting on mine—
I wouldn’t be asleep.
When you’d come home sweaty and dizzy,
I’d know better
than to let you sit alone.
Irreversible slips and the mind’s fragility—
I’d learn about them sooner,
flipping our roles before caregiving buckled.
This time, I’d understand
the devastation of a self-reliant man
encumbered by his body.
The night your vitals needed monitoring,
I wouldn’t be shopping.
The death rattle would be heard,
and not mistaken for breathing.
That cold January morning
when you wouldn’t swallow your pills,
I’d hold on to patience,
reading the helplessness in a father’s eyes.
I wish I could apologize—
for taking you for granted,
chasing answers in the abyss.
I never asked you once
what it took to survive in a world
where tenderness is punished
for trusting too much.
I’d be sorry for not growing up
when I was supposed to.
I’d believe
in a benevolent creator too,
if that could alter a cruel prophecy.
I wouldn’t go to work that day.
I’d sit through your final struggle,
plead with you—
our journey together isn’t complete.
And when it all still failed,
I’d at least let you go in peace.
Years withered away
in the imagination of a second chance
that I live here, now—
amid the crumbs of possibility
this fading existence has left me.