Letter to Lyova

Lyova, wherever you are,
I want you to know
I have finally mustered up
My faltering courage to use
This handmade, woven notebook
That you pressed into my hands,
Urging me to fill it with words.

The little doll that tsunami-victims made
Still stays pinned on the cover,
Although the pin is now rusted.
"Tsunamika" is her name.
I wonder how long her creator
Struggled to concieve of such a
Witty play on words.

I wonder if she had writer's block.
Did she, like I, suddenly feel her words unworthy?
Did panic grip her every time her fingers held a pen?
Did every painful, labored word
Feel like it drew blood?

Lion-philosopher, did you know
The enormity of the burden
You left in my hands
When you left this notebook behind?

It is strange that after all is over,
When images of sitting on floors of dusty coaches,
Curd-rice, balmy monsoon evenings,
Jewish temples, Adorno and Heidegger,
Nuns severe in habits of gray
Have started to blur like pictures
Of trees taken from speeding trains,

This notebook remains,
Eloquently silent,
At times accusatory,
At others comforting.
Finally I have taken it up
Because I owe it to the gift,
And I owe it to myself,
And I wanted you to know that, Lyova.