MONICA’S BUS…
Thinking about Monica, my dearest friend.
We met in a keep-fit group.
Our journey towards wellness began.
Monica – composed, lively, beautiful, radiant
Always knew what to think, what to say.
I admired her persona,
Her beauty,
Her luscious, red hair
And eyes like the Irish Sea.
She wore a cheeky smile and would always read my mind.
It was quite dark when we finished our workout sessions.
Monica and I would walk on deserted streets
Under the bridge towards our bus stops.
Her stop was before mine.
Before dashing off to the bus
She would always give me a hug
And say goodbye.
She waved at me from inside the well-lit bus.
Her bus came before mine.
She would always give me a hug
And say goodbye.
We would often meet for coffee or a meal.
We talked about our workplaces, nature
And life in general.
She would say: Yasmeen, should you decide to get married
Run it by me. I know you well, I can tell who is
Suitable for you.
I would laugh it off: Honey, I am happy as I am.
I didn’t see much of her during the pandemic.
We often exchanged text messages
She wished me ‘happy birthday’ in December.
We met a couple of times when it was okay for all.
The last time, it was in a South Indian restaurant.
Her companion, her friend, her jolly husband came along.
They went for spicy meals
I chose something less spicy.
We laughed and chatted, and enjoyed our meals.
The background music filled up spaces between our words.
Then like a sudden jolt, the news came -
Monica was no more,
She gave in to the disease.
How could it be?
How could this happen to someone
Who was fit, happy and healthy?
How could life pin down a vivacious bubble of light?
Monica’s bus came before mine.
This time she left without a hug
And without saying goodbye.
Yasmeen Rahman
31/01/21
MONICA’S BUS…
Thinking about Monica, my dearest friend.
We met in a keep-fit group.
Our journey towards wellness began.
Monica – composed, lively, beautiful, radiant
Always knew what to think, what to say.
I admired her persona,
Her beauty,
Her luscious, red hair
And eyes like the Irish Sea.
She wore a cheeky smile and would always read my mind.
It was quite dark when we finished our workout sessions.
Monica and I would walk on deserted streets
Under the bridge towards our bus stops.
Her stop was before mine.
Before dashing off to the bus
She would always give me a hug
And say goodbye.
She waved at me from inside the well-lit bus.
Her bus came before mine.
She would always give me a hug
And say goodbye.
We would often meet for coffee or a meal.
We talked about our workplaces, nature
And life in general.
She would say: Yasmeen, should you decide to get married
Run it by me. I know you well, I can tell who is
Suitable for you.
I would laugh it off: Honey, I am happy as I am.
I didn’t see much of her during the pandemic.
We often exchanged text messages
She wished me ‘happy birthday’ in December.
We met a couple of times when it was okay for all.
The last time, it was in a South Indian restaurant.
Her companion, her friend, her jolly husband came along.
They went for spicy meals
I chose something less spicy.
We laughed and chatted, and enjoyed our meals.
The background music filled up spaces between our words.
Then like a sudden jolt, the news came -
Monica was no more,
She gave in to the disease.
How could it be?
How could this happen to someone
Who was fit, happy and healthy?
How could life pin down a vivacious bubble of light?
Monica’s bus came before mine.
This time she left without a hug
And without saying goodbye.
Yasmeen Rahman
31/01/21
