Denzil's Stories

  Sacrifices a poem about a couple’s life raising children in the sixties and early seventies Denzil Jayasinghe 1 min read·Nov 29, 2022 I remember when my mother was sad, She couldn’t speak English to me, it made her mad. She interrupted her studies to marry my father, Her elusive dream of becoming a teacher. I grew up, and my mother sacrificed herself for me, And for my siblings, she worked so hard, you see. She was worried about our education and our budgeting, And raising three children, it was a lot of work, it was no joking. For weeks, my parents were separated by regions, They had nothing but letters to read at night, to fill their emotions. They looked forward to their visits, to be happy again, To be parents again, to be husband and wife again. They were intimate, they made love, my mother was happy, Her children were hanging on their father, it was a happy day. But then it was time for him to go, and my mother was sad, She had to let her man go again, it was so hard. Subsc...

The aftermath — the next month Days after my father’s death Part I  &  Part II  of this story O ur family home is an open home. It is full of people, pouring in night and day. Neighbours. Relatives from both sides of the family. Co-workers of my father. They share their stories and interactions with him. I listen and grasp what a good man he has been to them. In a busy household, I do not feel alone. I miss my four children, eight thousand kilometres away in Sydney. Do they know that their father’s life has been turned upside down? My youngsters are yet to understand the ways of the world. I type a long letter to them on my laptop. I don’t know where to start. I should not make them sad with my sorrow. Tears swell at the corners of my eyes, thinking of them and my father: three generations, me in the middle. I am the man in the middle, their link to him. I feel nostalgic. My mother gets up early in the morning. She dresses in a dark-coloured saree. She attends mass at...

The aftermath Part II of   my last day Denzil Jayasinghe · 1 1 Time: 2 am. Date: 23rd August 2002. Location: Dalugama, Sri Lanka My mother is crying silently. I fight back tears because I must hold myself together. Inside me, I am breaking apart. I have to be the brave soul that takes charge now. I call my aunt, my mother’s sister. At dawn, she arrives with her sons, my first cousins. My sister arrives with her husband. Our neighbour, Linton, who was with me in the vehicle when my father passed away, stays with me. I feel helpless because I do not know Sri Lanka’s system of organising funerals. It is not as straightforward as in Australia, my adopted country. Funeral directors in Sri Lanka only take care of embalming, the coffin and its transport. The family must take care of releasing the body to them and arranging church and burial services. I have had no trial runs in dealing with a death. I learn quickly that the first thing I must do is get a death certificate. A coroner will ...