Sometimes Zia seems like a work of fiction she says..once upon a time you had a daughter but you barely remember anything about her or your time with her. That all got taken away from you when she died. She is a story with no beginning…just an awful end…the end…the end…the end…
Is there not supposed to be a biological life cycle for everyone, its natural, normal, acceptable, the way of things, the way of life. One is born, one lives, one dies. She lived but not long enough, she was born but still, she died too soon. Where is her life cycle, the one recognised by science. The one she deserved.
You can argue her existence in your effort to break the silence, but there is always my voice, my angry miserable voice that screams dead dead dead, she is dead, she never got to live, she never knew you, she never knew the love you have for her, she never saw the light, she never saw you, she didn’t need you, you are not good enough
She began and she ended..the end..the end
Fancy it up all you like but can you truly say you knew her, create in your mind someone, a heroine in your work of fiction, Zia you may call her, she isn’t real. Real is what you can see, touch, feel, embrace…I hear those angry words…real grows, laughs, plays…lives..is she real then?
Reality I shout back is holding your lifeless baby in your arms, reality is silence, deafening, cruel silence that shatters your soul, reality angry voice in my head, is that you cannot wish her away, reality is that your anger is because of her, because she is who you are, she created you, without her…dear dear voice in my head, you..would not exist….
She gave you this life