Write Stuff

When We Look at You, Thaththi
By AW

They tell us you are waking up,
slowly, like the sun behind thick clouds.
We nod, because that sounds like good news,
but we don’t know what waking up really means.

We stand very still near your bed.
We whisper, just in case noise hurts you.
We wonder if you can hear us
when we say your name the way we always did.

Will you know us when you open your eyes?
Will you remember the jokes,
the nicknames,
the way you used to call us from the gate?
We are scared you might look at us
and not see home.

Amma tells us to be brave.
She smiles even when her eyes are tired.
So we smile too.
But inside, our hearts ask questions
we don’t know how to ask adults.

Will you run with us again?
Will you hold our hands the same way?
If you can’t,
will you still love us just as much?

We are learning that life can change suddenly,
without asking children first.
That grown-ups don’t always have answers.
That love sometimes waits in hospital rooms
and hopes very quietly.

But we want you to know this, Thaththi—
even if you forget our names,
even if your body feels different,
even if everything feels new to you,

we will remind you.
We will learn again together.
We will love you loudly if you cannot speak,
and strongly if you feel weak.

Please come back to us,
whatever way you can.
We are right here.
We have been waiting.

*Reply from Thaththi:*
I hear you,
even when my eyes are slow to open,
even when my body forgets its strength.
Your voices find me
in places I didn’t know were still awake.

If my hands tremble,
it is not because I don’t know you.
If my words take time,
it is not because you are lost to me.
Some things live deeper than memory,
and you live there.

I may walk differently.
I may speak carefully,
like someone learning a language again.
But my heart has not forgotten
how to belong to you.

Do not be afraid if I look confused.
I am only finding my way back.
Do not think my love is weaker
because my body is tired.
Love does not live in muscles or movement—
it lives in the places that survive everything.

If I cannot run,
I will still watch you grow.
If I cannot lift you,
I will still hold you in every way that matters.
If I forget a story,
tell it to me again—I will listen.

You are not a burden to my healing.
You are the reason for it.
Every breath I take is pulled forward
by the thought of you.

Stay close.
Be patient with me,
as I learn myself again.
No matter how this future unfolds,
I am still your Thaththi.

I am here.
I am trying.
And I love you—
completely,
forever.