“You never will amount to much,” 

you said quietly. Not acknowledging

that quiet is not silence. 

Unlike the silence that fell

when you died for me, absolute 

and forever silencing the noise.

Quiet calls for attention

to the hum of voices in the background, 

the koel that sings, the wind 

that whistles, the moon that whispers,

love and laughter that echo in the quiet

of the deepest nights. 

I have that quiet in eyes that simmer

sometimes flows in happy streams

of memories that refuse to die. 

I also have grief, that stew brewed

with a thousand ingredients,

not all pleasant or edible.

I spit it out, the silence

I also acknowledge you were right,

I never did amount to much.