It's been exactly a year since my father left us. I wrote He's gone after coming back from the cremation ground, and Remembering baba a few days later.
I wonder where he is now, if he 'is' at all in any sense that we can understand.
But of course, he lives on in many memories, and I miss him.
This is life:
A moment's halt, a momentary taste
Of Being, at the well amid the waste,
And lo! the phantom caravan has reached
The Nothing it set out from: O, make haste!
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