It is now a year since your demise, as a victim of dreaded cancer. But I have not yet reconciled myself to this fact, and probably never will, not until my own term ends.
I live in the house that sheltered us for more than 47 years, and some little facet of your life illuminates every living moment of my waking life. Yesterday, for example, the fish vendor came by, crying out that he had one of your favourite items – fresh sprats. If you were here, we would have bought a quantity of sprats and you would have cooked it as no maid ever could – a dish fit for a king.
As I write this, your other culinary skills come to mind, such as your roast wild boar (out of this world) and your cutlets and patties, as only you could make them.
The fish vendor’s visit briefly distracted me from my more important task, and that is to write about your genuine goodness.
The most unforgettable thing about you was your equable temperament. You were never easily ruffled. And there was your total commitment to the family – the four children and myself. Your devotion was extraordinary. You lived for us, never thinking of yourself.
You were never much of a visitor to temples, especially in the latter stages of your life, those last three or four years when you developed arthritis. Your meritorious deeds were done silently and unobtrusively. On one occasion you saved the life of our younger son, two years at the time, when he was about to fall off a window sill. On another occasion you saved our four-year-old nephew from being burnt to death. That child is now 11 years. These two acts, together with the good deeds you continuously rendered through your selflessness – all for others, nothing for yourself – would alone give you enough merits to take you along Sansara for more than a dozen births.
Monica, you were a sweet-tempered person to the world, your relatives and your friends, but to us, your children and myself, you were our world. You were there beside me for everything; whether it was to fix a leaking tap, a blocked sink, or a blown fuse. You would do it all yourself, without troubling me in the least. You made our house a fine home.
Dearest Monica, I am lost without you, and can only echo that old song – “I'm no good without you anyhow”.
Please, at least one more time in Sansara, be my wife and the mother of our children.
May you attain Nirvana.
Your grieving husband, Oswald |
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