Because your body doesn’t feel the same anymore. You wake up in the night to check if the breath still belongs to you or has dissipated like you have imagined hundreds of times. The clock continues to tick and your favourite portrait of Lord Muruga in the gilded frame smiles from the opposite wall. You draw a lungful of air, make a wish for a peaceful end, exhale and stare into the darkness.
Yesterday, your daughter visited you and urged you to join her for a walk. She took your hand into hers, guided you along the pathway of cobbled stones. Her steps were shorter, slower to match yours and when you stole a glance at her, you saw her silver streaks gleaming in the morning sun. Time seemed to have slipped through your fingers and your heart ached that you will leave everyone behind. Without warning, she pulled out her phone, captured your private moment with a click. She pinched the screen, and you both shared a laugh. Your heart broke because every bone in your body screamed it was the last time you both were smiling at the screen together. You asked her to send it to you, so you could stare at it later, alone, when no one’s watching.
You pick up the phone and look at the photograph for a long time before sleep takes over.
Little do you know then that your instinct will be true. Little do you know then that the picture your daughter has captured will be the only selfie she will look at for the rest of her life. Little do you know then, that your image will be cropped, scooped out from the frame and will eventually be part of your obituary.
Sudha Subramanian lives in Dubai, UAE. Her writings have appeared in JMWW, The Hooghly Review, Roi Faineant, among others. She is a tree hugger and an amateur birder. Connect with her on X @sudhasubraman or on Bluesky @sudhasubraman.bsky.social
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