Whispers and Echoes

Death

I sense contentment in his closed eyes. The wrinkles dipped in his eyes loosening up, his eyebrows without their usual stress, and his usually firmly chapped lips relaxed.
If death was the 'cold touch of misery', as poets describe it, then why do I, for the first time, see innocent tranquility tinted on his face? Why does it seem that now he has something we living beings can't acquire?
He feels like the settling ripples of disturbed water.

Perhaps death isn't cold and brutal afterall. Perhaps it's like a warm touch of assurance, for once someone acknowledging our sufferings in true sense. 'You did well. Now take a rest'. Maybe it's like a sweet lullaby on a moonlit night, like calm winds twirling around, like misty dew jewelled on leaves, like a newly bloomed lotus. For the meandering life has finally come to a halt.

I gently stroke his hair, his brown tousled hair, and hold his hand. 'I know you are not here anymore, but can you feel me? Sense me? For something is telling me you, perhaps, can.'
It feels as if he's on the threshold of something new, something big. With water in his eyes he'd be waving at me from somewhere, maybe for once he'd understand me, ironic that the most heartfelt communication between us brewed like this.

So i wave back. I've never felt him to be so happy.

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(A/n : yooo~~ so i just wanted to post smth and this is more like a shower thought? I got my exams pretty soon so I'm TRYING to postpone writing all these ideas im getting. But ofc, i'd think about death and shit when i got a thousand math formulas bombarding my brain ooof 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️)