The cradle still makes its sound, faint echoes of the past reverberating through the years. Memories spin in circles, each one tied to moments I can no longer touch but can never forget. I look at my wife now, her hands weathered with age, her face marked by time, and I seek solace in this life, hoping for a calm end. Tears fall from my eyes, tears that dry with each passing day, but the images of what once was continue to haunt my nights.
We are here, in this space, forgotten and aloof, entangled in our own apprehensions, longing for peace. A teddy bear, once a comfort, now tells the stories of days gone by, its faded fabric bringing back memories of simpler times. The toys—balls, crayons, playdough, the kite—are all reminders of what has passed. And in the silence, I feel the weight of it all, the way it slays me in this sorrowful plight.
There was a divine feeling in those days of completeness, in the anticipation of the life we were about to bring into the world. The pain of pregnancy now seems like a distant memory, overshadowed by the joy and dreams we wove together for the unborn child. Holding that tiny hand in mine, I felt I had touched divinity itself. The moment she called me “mommy” was the moment my world was made whole.
I remember the teething days, the baby talks, the unspoken words that communicated more than language ever could. Her fragile fingers held my hand, and I guided her through those first wobbly steps. Her little feet made their way through this world, clumsy but determined. I cherished her pretty frocks, the mischief in her acts, and the innocence in her worries. I saw her grow—through school days, dance classes, debates, and studies. Each moment, each step, took away my weariness, for her simple words, “I love you, daddy,” were the fuel that kept me going.
But now, she walks on a path that leaves her parents behind. “Life is so tough, you know,” she says. “I have less time for studies.” Time, it seems, has passed, and with it, so has life. Her ideas now outpace ours, our values seem obsolete, and she tells us, “Stay in your euphoric world of dreams.”
The delicate fingers that once needed our hands no longer reach out for guidance. Her feet, once fragile, now know the path ahead. The words she used to speak in innocence are now replaced by the rush of adulthood. And now we, who gave her everything, are labeled as “examples of stupidity.” The days of our sacrifices, the nights we stayed awake, the desires we gave up to give her a better life—all are forgotten in her pursuit of success.
Yet, in the depth of our hearts, we long for those days to return. We long for the life we lived before it slipped away, for the nights spent awake and the promises made. “Return to us our life,” we whisper into the silence. “Return to us the days, the nights, the diligence… the love.”