“If letting go was that easy, there would be no wars, no tears, and no poetry.” I quoted Adi K’s words over and over again in my head, like a song that never left my brain. Letting go was simply not just about letting go of something or someone, but it is the letting go of a version of myself that used to run through these hallways freely or scribbling through the white walls until my mom or my grandmother would shout at me. But now there is only a version of me that stayed, the sin of staying still without my permission, the embarrassment of sitting still. "Slowly…" My grandmother's voice came through like a smooth silk, pulling me back from my own thoughts. The way she whispers is just like the words of prayer. She slowly leaned in, putting her face close to mine, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the details of her skin. It showed the kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ease. Both of my hands rested on the armrest as if it were a broken tool, feeling heavy and worthless. I just feel my mind shouting at her. “Sit down and rest your back. I’m not worth the pain in your back.” But the thoughts were stuck behind my teeth, locked in lips that wouldn’t open. When I tried to say them, my muscles wouldn’t listen to me. My throat tightened so hard like a tight knot, and a weak, broken sound came out, a whine. “Gla…glen…glenma…” A faint smile was on her face, like a calm strength of the mask she wore. She mistook my struggle as a sign that I was hungry. "I know, Rayaan. Almost there,” she murmured. She ended up leaning closer as she dipped the spoon into the thin soup. It was a poor meal, just some water, some salt, and a faint scent of a potato, but she served it like it was a big meal. There is a rose of a small, faded cloud, briefly blurring the sharp lines of her features on her face. With a hand that was so hard to be steady but a little shaky, she brought it to my lips. I felt the cold metal touch my tongue. The
being unable to help myself and leave a burden on her shoulders. She remained patient and didn't rush me. She didn't look away; she waited quietly, her eyes fixed on mine, watching for the small, regular swallow that showed I was able to take another bite. Meanwhile, outside our house, the distant thud of a mortar shell vibrated through the floorboards and the windows. It wasn't a loud explosion, but a deep, tectonic shudder that rattled the Kuwaiti flag in our cupboard. The glass clinked and shook like it was a warning, but she didn't even flinch. Her world had shrunk to the space between the bowl of soup and my mouth. To her, that little journey between the spoon and my lips was more important than the war happening miles away. I swallowed the soup and the shame together. “One day,” I promised her in the silence of my mind, “I will buy you a house where the house and the windows don't shake. I’ll hire a hundred people to carry you so you never have to stand again. I will give you back the hours you spent over your back.” She finally pulled the spoon away, her eyes tracking the lump in my throat. I could see the harsh strain in her posture. Her shoulders were pulled tight, and her spine was curved like a bow. She had been bent over in that same cramped position for more than a minute, sacrificing her comfort just to ensure I didn't miss a single drop of soup. Every time she adjusted her stance, I felt my "debt" growing. My survival is heavily dependent on being paid for in the steady, grinding ache of her lower back. When she dipped the spoon back into the bowl, I pressed my lips shut. I pressed them together and tighter as a silent protest and hope for her to understand what I have been thinking all this time. “Oh, Rayaan… please, just a little more,” she pleaded. Her voice was a gentle, motherly whisper that made my heart ache more than my dead limbs. I almost gave in and opened my mouth, but remained still with my protest. She slightly tilted the bowl, showing me the small, shimmering pool of liquid remaining at the bottom. “It’ll be a waste if I wash this now. Just three more sips?” I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that the broth didn't matter, that she was the one who was wasting, wasting her strength, her
I knew if I opened my mouth to argue, the sounds would be messy, whiny, and broken, and she would simply take it as an invitation and a sign to slide the spoon back in my mouth. Instead, I used the only part of me that still obeyed. I locked my eyes onto hers, then quickly moved my pupils hard to the left. I stared at the wooden chair that was available beside her. The one with the floral cushion where she usually sat to rest her swollen ankles or simply her back. Then I looked back at her, then back to the chair, then back at her, and it kept going that way until my eyes appeared pleading with her to understand the silent command. “Sit down,” I begged silently. “For God’s sake, Grandma, just sit down first.” “Are you worried about me, Rayaan?” A soft chuckle escaped her, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. She finally caught the hint. She saw the frantic dance of my eyes toward the chair and understood the command I couldn’t voice. She let out a long sigh, but it didn’t appear frustrated. She leaned in closer and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. Her skin felt thin, delicate, and ancient. Yet her touch was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn't just a collection of broken tools. “Finish this first, then I will sit,” she promised, her voice dropping to a low whisper as usual. “I’ll even sit so close in front of you that you’ll still feel me there, even if you close your eyes.” She chuckled again, a spark of her old humor shining through the gloom of the room. I let out a small, frustrated whine, a broken sound that was supposed to be a protest, a plea for her to put her own health first before mine. But she was already lifting the spoon. She didn’t just hold it; she began to wave it around through the air in a slow, wobbling arc, mimicking a motion from a lifetime ago. “Open up, Rayaan. Here comes the airplane.” It was such a childish, simple act, but in a house where the walls were filled with distant explosive thuds, it felt like the only comforting moment that she could do. She was pretending, for just a moment, that the world was normal, in a no world war zone. She was pretending I wasn't a paralyzed young man and just a kid. She was pretending that she wasn't a woman running out of time. I finally opened my mouth.
about the "airplane." I did it because it was the only way to get her to sit on the chair I kept pointing to. I accepted the defeat, choosing to swallow the soup and my pride together, knowing that in our house, my grandmother was still a stubborn woman no matter how old she got. And maybe even more stubborn than the war outside. After she was done, she cleaned up the mess after me and finally sank into the chair. The old wood creaked under her weight in a way that sounded like a sigh of relief. Seeing her head lean back against the cushion was the only somewhat "payment" I could offer her for the evening. The room fell into a heavy, dusty silence, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock that had lost its face. I watched her from my wheelchair as my eyes traced the rise and fall of her chest. How many hours had she spent like this? Since the accident, since the bombs, the wars, since the world decided to break us both in different kinds of ways? I began the usual task of (well, forcing) willing my body into motion. I focused every ounce of my strength on my right hand, trying to drag my fingers across the armrest. It felt like lifting a dumbbell, a millimeter of progress paid for in pure exhaustion. She didn't move to help; she let me be and gave me the dignity of the struggle, letting me fight for that small strap of independence. I wanted to reach for the blue book of phonetic exercises on the side table to show her I was able to try, to struggle, and sense to live, while also trying to prove I could eventually lessen the "debt" I owed her. But I stopped. If I overextended and slipped, she would bolt upright, her knees cracking just to rush to catch me. I chose to stay still instead and use the bottom of my wheelchair to move, and grab the book with my final touches of nerves that allow my finger to move. This became my offering and my quietness as a gift to her rest. The silence was broken only by my messy, labored attempts at my vocal. I felt the noise was an invasion of her peace, but as I made a move to turn my chair away, she reached out. Her hand found the frame of my wheelchair and pulled me firmly, almost like a desperate plea to stay beside her.
I rested the book on my lap, but as I went to open it, her hand moved to cover mine, forcing the pages shut. “Rest, Rayaan. And I mean it for your thick skull to rest, too,” she chuckled. I looked at her, confused, but she only leaned her head back against the creaking chair, her fingers wrapping warmly around mine. “A garden doesn't owe the rain for falling; it is the rain’s nature to give so the flowers can live,” she whispered, her eyes drifting shut. “You give me a reason to wake up while the world is at war. Practice your words not because you owe me, but because you are the poetry this world needs.” She slowly turns her head to face me as she slowly flutters her eyes open with a gentle smile plastered on her face. “I am right here. I am always by your side, Rayaan.” As her breathing slowed into sleep, I realized that my stillness wasn't a failure; it was exactly where she needed me to be. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the cold frame of the wheelchair. I didn't want her to see the hot tears that were already beginning to blur my vision. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I opened the imaginary ledger again. I began to count the cost of my life. “Ten thousand for your eyes,” I thought, picturing the way they strained in the dim light of the oil lamp. “Fifty thousand for your back, for the way it curved under the weight of a grandson who couldn't even hold his own head up.” I added it all to the total, a big and massive debt that I carried like a secondary spine. I promised the silence that I would pay every cent that she had done for me. I would find a way to make the sounds in my throat become words. I would build the house with the steady windows. I would buy the chair that wouldn’t creak no matter how hard she plopped down to sit. But as I heard her breathing grow heavy and rhythmic in the corner, a realization hit me harder than any mortar shell. She didn't want the house. She didn't want the hundred people to carry her. She just wanted me to swallow the broth. She wanted the version of me that still lived inside the broken parts, the one who looked at her with love instead of just ledger entries.
For now, I am no one but her last debt before her last breath. Yet for the first time, I realized that to her, that debt wasn't a burden. It was the only thing keeping her well, alive, and standing. About the author Thank you for reading! I’m Nadia Ramadhani, a student in the English Literature Department at University Muhammadiyah Purwokerto. My love for literature starts from its unique way of exploring language, identity, and human nature. By reading and studying literary works, I constantly expand my worldview.
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