It comes by slow, yet with its starting power. 

At a juncture that's uncommonly uncanny. 

I recite the old scriptures my grandfather loved reading. 

The old gramophone and the antique telephone. 

His memories seem embossed in this soprano tune of noon. 

Grieving is celebrating the shards of memory he left behind. 

A legacy of wonder. 

My eyes swelling to form rivers of remembrance. 

I break like the kul of the sea - diverging into different directions. 

But the fire of his wisdom, still rejuvenates somewhere within. 

In the gloss of spaces between us, he remains, we feel. 

We cry our hearts out and dream of a world of constellated stars where he perhaps resides in safety. 

Grief is just to believe there's the dear one, somewhere in the alternate world, residing in peace. 

Grief is to be embraced in belief. 

To narrate age-old tales of my grandfather and his wondrous deeds, and see all emotions unfurl as they would.

Grief is to turn to the ground and see the distance between the mud and the moon and feel there's hope. 

My grandfather is gone from the world, but he rests in ecstasy, 

Gleaming stars, stardust, that's what we are.