Writer’s wife

Renton de Alwis

A desperate call,

from

a dead writer’s wife.

“They are not doing enough

for him, after all, he did so much”.

“Promises made,

funeral orations.

They said,

they would help.

The left, right and centre,

were all there,

with cameras  rolling.

Give us a house,

scholarships for the kids

a stipend and more.

After all,

he was, what

but a celebrity.

A year ago

that was.

Manuscripts he left,

need be published.

I must keep his flame burning,

he did so much,

it meant so much.

I just can’t

let them forget.

I need time.

A hundred thousand

a month,

is what
that time cost

to keep the house fires burning.

Son must be sent,

not only to school,

but abroad

to sharpen skills.

Daughter’s now ok,

for pocket money,

at the ad firm

she writes copy.

It is
I,

who need

to do something,

beauty salon … boutique hotel,

anything,

that gives me

a hundred thousand a month.

They must know

it’s not easy,

for a writer’s wife.

Was not easy then,

it’s even harder now.

Am I asking for much?

Only

a hundred thousand

a month?”

It’s not like

for some,

who only asked,

a sad song

be written on his tomb,

not by any and sundry.

only by an anonymous 

appreciator of his verse.

I know of many,

who exist on a pittance…

But then,

they are not all,

writer’s wives.

 

Written in October 2010.