saying yes, saying no, and then waiting for us

My mother in law passed away yesterday morning. She only lived one week longer than my father in law. Theirs was a long relationship, the kind that makes you more than kin. This picture was taken during our marriage 40 years ago. It is sad that in-laws are a suspect relationships all across the world and blessed are the few who can transcend these age-long mores and build a their own happy story. For me that was not to be.

No one one knows what happens after your breathe your last breath. I only pray that our common Maker makes them understand the inevitability of the path I had to chose. I had no option. None whatsoever. May they rest in Peace.

The passing of my mother-in-law has brought to light with poignancy of the bond that is woven in a long marriage, where you stand by the other in good and bad, sickness and health till death does one part. She could only outlive him by just a few days. Papa outlived my mother by a year or so, and that too because he held on till I needed him. The day he knew he was an impediment to my life journey, he left, without a sound. I think that is what awaits me too!

This feeling of co dependency and love is most beautifully pictured in Jacques Brel's immortal song: Les Vieux.

Here is the best translation of this haunting song

Old folk no longer talk or else at times hardly from the tip of their eyes

Even if they are rich they are poor, they have no more illusions and but one heart for two

Their homes smell of thyme, neatness, lavender and vintage turns of phrase

Even if we live in Paris we all live in the boondocks when we live too long

Is it from having laughed too much that their voices crack when they talk of the past

And from too much weeping that tears still form beads on their eyelids?

And if they quaver a bit, is it from seeing growing old the silver clock

That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, saying: I’m waiting for you?

Old folk no longer dream; their books are left to slumber; their pianos are closed shut

The little cat is dead; the Sunday muscatel no longer makes them sing

Old folk no longer move, their gestures are too wrinkled, their world is far too small

From the bed to the window then from the bed to the chair and then from the bed to the bed

And if they still go out arm in arm, all clad in stiffness

It’s to attend in the sun the burial of an older man, the burial of an uglier woman

And, in the crack of a sob, forget for a whole hour the silver clock

That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no and then waiting for them

Old folk do not die; they fall asleep one day and sleep too long

They hold hands, afraid to lose each other and yet lose the other one does

And the other remains there, the better or the worse, the gentle or the stern

It doesn’t matter. The one of the two left behind finds herself in hell

You will see her perhaps, you will see him sometimes, in the rain and in grief

Going through the present already apologising for not being further along

And shunning in front of you one last time the silver clock

That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, telling them: I’m waiting

That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, and then waiting for us