“Give yourself and those in need an elixir of life by pledging your organs” -Mohith Agadi.
. I.
So it began, the day my son died, the heavens ceased, there was no sun either. It was a bland day, just as though the sky also mourned. I had cried all my eyes out in hopes that my tears would find a way to turn into flesh and so I could have my child back. I hoped in miracles and clung dearly to magic, but none came. Soon after the tears stopped, what remained was an eye; sore, blurry and swollen. I did try to sleep in hopes that maybe if I did, I might wake to reality. But I couldn’t sleep nor stay awake. I sat alone in the dark, naked, my mind drifting into the yonder, taking me through the memories I had with my child—the only possessions I had of him, the only ones that would remain with me till the day that I die.
II.
He was a brilliant child. His smile lit up anywhere he went. He was known simply as The Light. The day he was born, he came rather anxiously. I never went through the rigours of childbearing. He came on his own accord. His cry even seemed like laughter. Never have I seen a child so happy to go into this wretched world. For all his happiness and optimism, the world was cruel to him. He had a sickness. At first, I thought it was normal but little did I know that such an awful sickness would fall my son. But even in all the pains and sufferings, he suffered. Still, he never stopped being happy. Whenever I cried by his bedside, praying to God that he should spare his life, my son would look at me, smile and say to me, “Mother, I’m an angel. God has bigger plans for me.” After that, he would give a smile, we’d share a hug, and I’d suddenly feel whole again. But I still was never at peace, “what type of mother would I be to know that I have been cursed in burying my child, yet do nothing about it?” But knowing that he was living his life to fullness gave me a bit of peace. Also, he was sure to maximise all the love his heart could give, stretching it beyond its limit.
III.
A period of peace when we both were happy and hoping for the future. The cold hand of death came, slammed him to the ground, battered him and snatched him from me. The night he died, I fought death first. Then the devil and lastly God. For the first time in all my years, I understood the meaning of nakedness. I realised that to be naked wasn’t the absence of cloth. A big hole had been created in my life, and I doubt if it may ever be filled.
IV.
Even in death my boy made an impact. He donated every organ in his body to those in need. I remember walking down the corridor at the hospital; my unconscious son been wheeled into the operating room, his organs to be harvested—as he had wished. Everyone stood, saluting, clapping and praying for him. Tears welled up in their eyes. Even the most demanding men couldn’t bring themselves to look at him, lest they be confused as cowards. My son had been so brave. He faced the world without any fears. Even in death, he was a conqueror—he didn’t conquer any lands or planets, but instead, he defeated and touched lives and hearts all over. I was proud of him, and so I smiled while I watched him go into the operating room for the last time. I knew full well that he was finally at peace. He rested.
V.
A few years later, I heard a knock on my door, and I opened the door. I saw various individuals standing in front of me. I was confused as to why they stood in front of me till one of them reached out to me and hugged me deeply, whispering into my ears the words that I’d not heard in a long time, “Mother.” I jerked away for a bit, and this person, this stranger, grabbed my hands and kept it on their chest. Asked me to feel their heartbeat. One second, two seconds, three seconds, I heard nothing, and suddenly the heart began to beat, and so it dawned on me that it was my late son’s heart that was inside this person. I cried, and so the others came to me one after the other, grabbing my hands and bringing it to the part of my son they had received, each one of them calling me “mother.” I didn’t know how it happened, but I saw my son inside each one of them. I realised that my child had replicated himself into these individuals. Now I was no longer childless. My one child had multiplied.
VI.
I no longer mourn my son because he wouldn’t want that. Now I have children and grandchildren who all call me ‘mother’, each one of them carrying my blood or something they have acquired from me through my son. I was alive and blessed.
It happened that when winter came, I blossomed in so much love.
Note: This story is pure fiction. No part of this story represents anyone dead or alive. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. The author won't be held responsible for how you wish to Interpret this story.
Copyright solely belongs to the author, no part of this story should be reproduced without permission, written, oral or otherwise stated by the author.
See what your pen brought forth!!! This is lovely🙌❤️.
Awwwn... Beautiful story. Well done