I found myself holding on to fragments of love. They were memories—those scattered moments of joy and sorrow, conversations shared and songs sung under the breath of fleeting time. I began to release them, one by one, like beads on a rosary, letting them slip into the world of mortality. Each one, a piece of my soul.
I gave the mischief in my eyes to a child playing in the street, the innocence of youth reflected in their gaze. I offered a helping hand to a beggar with no feet, sharing what little I had with a stranger in need. To those whose eyes only saw darkness, I gave my dreams, painting their world with the colors of hope. To the wait, the hope that flickered like a lamp in the mist, I gave my heart.
I sent pieces of care to those in old homes, longing for the warmth of human connection. A part of my love went to the librarian, whose clothes were tattered, but whose spirit remained unwavering in the midst of poverty. I lent a part of my joy to the student who had failed, showing them that failure is not the end, but the beginning of a new story.
I sang my melody for the sad nightingale, whose voice carried sorrow in every note, and I gave a little piece of myself to a widow, just twenty-four, whose heart ached with the weight of loss. Our anniversary cake, once a symbol of shared love, now belonged to one who lay sleeping on the cold road, dreaming of a warmth they had never known.
Laughter echoed through the halls of the hospital, where the crippled awaited a better day. To the burn victims, I sent my bangles, a symbol of beauty and strength. I offered my respect to the girl humiliated in daylight, reminding her that her dignity could not be taken. A sweater, woven with care, found its way to the guard braving the cold night, a silent hero standing watch.
I sent the rains to barren lands, hoping to nourish the soil that had long been deprived of life. Our songs, once sung in joy, now sailed across oceans, reaching the hearts of those who had never known such melodies. My smiles, though fleeting, found their way to orphans, whose lives had been molded by hardship. And to the farmers of the vale, who worked tirelessly to bring forth the harvest, I gave my gratitude.
Some memories of love still remain with me—those talks, those songs, those moments that once defined my world. But as the beads of a rosary slip through my fingers, I am learning to let them go, as they too belong to the world of mortality. They are no longer mine to keep, but gifts to those who need them more.