The Holidays Without You (In memory of Priyath Liyanage)

The Holidays Without You (In memory of Priyath Liyanage)

26 December 2020 02:45 pm

By Dulan Liyanage (Priyath's youngest son)

Just over month ago I lost my father, but Christmas is a time of family and being thankful for those that are through with you through it all. You know who you are, thank you for my friends, both old and new, that I love and love me back. Those that have stayed in touch and that have touched my heart.

Below is a (admittedly rather miserable) poem about my dad that I wrote last week, as it's our first of many Christmases without him. As sad as it sounds, I'm a lot more happy than I could have been thanks to those that have been there for me and my family throughout all of this. So have a happy Christmas, all of you, and if you're having a drink, hold a toast and laugh at the good memories of those that this awful year has taken from us all.

The Holidays Without You

A metal cage slammed shut,
locking you in,
locking me down.
Burning ashes,
as my heart freezes over,
as the world freezes under
the grip of a new strain
of the same story;
an allegory
of 'Trauma 2020'.
In cinemas now,
or not.
Whats a movie without a writer?
I dare to write in your wake.

The hobs are off,
The fan is silent
I wake up late.
I sit up,
To the smell...
of nothing: my body odour.
Not coconut and batala,
Not warm kiribati,
No warm hugs and kisses,
No cheer and beer:
An ale i'd bought to celebrate:
A new flat in which you'll never cook-off with me;
A new job in which you'll never see me work with;
A new half you'll with which you'll never share tea;
A new car you'll never get to drive with,
In 6th gear down the motorway at 90
Shakes gone, pure dopamine
And adrenaline fueled fire
What a flame without the spark that started it?
I dare to reignite cinders.

The Birth of Christ?
More like a hole
in my life
No begrudgingly built tree,
No splinters from lights around the stairs,
No Christmas tunes in November,
Let alone today;
We're alone today.
No hidden gifts under chairs,
No cocktails in the evenings,
No wine with dinner,
No dinner, not without
Those recipes you took
With you into the hot cage.
Yet I still set the table for four;
Watching the oven door,
Whats a kitchen without a chef?
Whats a night without your snores?
Whats a boy without a father?
I dare to beg your answer.