Five years since you've been gone. A lot has changed in this time. Your miniature is not so mini anymore. I've had multiple hair colour changes, two tattoos, and I'm going for the third one this year—all around Durga Puja time.
Sometimes I have morbid thoughts, like you coming back into my life as a half-alive zombie, demanding to know why I'm living in Chennai now and why I let our son eat Twix bars first thing in the morning on weekends. He talks a lot, our little one. He takes after me, obviously, but looks just like you. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember you at all, or even the concept of a father. He's a bold one—he befriends anyone and comes out with really controversial one-liners. Still, he is the love of my life now. Sorry, Poopie, that role was taken by him the minute he was born—you already know that. But I promise I'll let him marry whoever he wants, and I will not be an overbearing mommy.
I miss you whenever I eat a cheesecake from Starbucks or whenever I find myself making big life decisions, which has been quite a few in the last five years. I could never find that song you composed for me after you passed. I don't even remember how "Poopie Monster" sounds now. So how will people believe me when I say a man composed a song for me and made it sound cheeky?
How do you feel about turning naughty forty in heaven in less than three months? I'm excited for you, and I'm excited for me too. Although, I never needed to turn forty just to become naughty; I was born naughty—again, a fact that you already know. I hope heaven has all the limited-edition brands of guitars, monitors, speakers, and all those shiny buttons you kept tapping for you to create more disturbing, scary music.
Until we meet again.
Love,
Your Poopie
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