The Weight Of Things Poem by ashok jadhav

The teacup on the windowsill
carries the warmth of hands now gone.
The coat hung in the hallway
remembers shoulders that will never return.
Even the chair in the corner
seems to sigh with absent laughter.
Each object hums with memory,
small, silent, unassuming,
yet heavy with the ache of what once was—
ordinary things transformed
into vessels of extraordinary sorrow.
I touch them lightly, afraid to break
the fragile bridge they offer to the past,
and feel the grief seep into my own bones,
as if the world itself conspires
to remind me of every absence.
Even the air between them carries weight,
a quiet, persistent lament
that fills rooms,
lingers in corners,
and refuses to be ignored.
I mourn not just the people gone,
but the echo they leave in things,
and the sorrow that turns the ordinary
into a landscape of memory,
a museum of the heart's quiet suffering.