A Gentle Presence

You were never one

to take up space with noise 

instead, you moved quietly,

the kind of presence

that never needed announcing

to be felt.

In those early years

of first love and soft rebellions,

you hovered at the edges 

a gentle presence,

neither intrusive nor distant,

but always there.

Later, when life turned fragile,

as my father began his slow goodbye,

you showed up again 

checking in,

offering comfort in the simplest of ways.

A gentle presence

that asked for nothing in return.

You never tried to define your place

in anyone’s story,

but somehow,

you were part of mine 

woven through love, loss,

and quiet resilience.

And now,

as another voice from that generation fades,

I find myself mourning not just you,

but the vanishing art

of quiet care.

Rest softly, Uncle Prasanna.

You were part of the love stories,

the heartbreaks,

and the healing.

Always quietly,

but always there.