My Soulmate

Papers flutter in the book by the window waking me up from my slumber. It takes some time for my conscience to sink in.

The reality, quite slowly, dawns on me. 

I can feel the wait, the hope. It's been waiting for me to get back, reunite and blend with it once again.

For years it has been a faithful companion drawing out my thoughts, pain, love and myself in entirety.

It has added meaning to my life. It has held me when everything else failed me. It has led me to myself, to who I am, in the times that seemed impossible.

How I wish to just feel it again. Once more, just once, would be enough. I am engulfed with umpteen thoughts. 

My years of work is stashed around in the room. The books, my pride, that carry my name and will continue to, long after I am gone.

But none of that matters right now. 

I reminisce of the endless hours I would spend by that very table where I would step into the unknown. It's been the source to bind and put down my infinite imagination.

I see the pen amid the papers, brimming in its elegance, calling out to me.

For one last time, I want to feel it between my fingers, be one with it. Express with ink of how it has been my true love. Jot down how, with every passing year, bit by bit, my soul has been engraved into it.  

I want to pay tribute to my true faithful companion, use it one more time, to tell tales

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of how it grants me the unlimited strength.

I want to just reach the table and write more. A tear trickles down form the side of my eye.

I almost cry out to the room. What else was I expecting? I had seen through the facade all along. But this old man's heart with its expectations clogged the thoughts. 

The moment, I used that very pen to sign the will, my children were nowhere to be seen thereafter. Not one of them. 

If possible, I would want to write about the shallow ties, the greed that never dies, of own blood and betrayal, of love coated blatant lies.

I helplessly lie here on my bed debilitated by age and health. I seethe towards my helplessness and struggle, trembling, fumbling to the floor off the bed.

I breathe and then smile. I stop waiting for any help that will never arrive. I realize I have no reason to be sad.

I forward myself, maybe just an inch, but I struggle towards the table with every bit of strength I have. 

I know I may not last through my quest, but whether I live or die, I can't help but smile and continue the struggle.

You may wonder, why? But why wouldn't I? 

A room full of books written by me, my pen calling out to me, waiting to be held. I was already in paradise, my haven, my heaven. 

The smile refuses to recede as eyes shut on me. What else could a writer ask for, with his pen in his hand.