I wrote a thesis on what killed you.
I found the disease.
I took its name and studied it.
I broke it down piece by piece.
I spent my college on it, and then my residency.
I learnt words like
critical congenital heart defect and cardiomyopathy.
I wrote my thesis on what killed you.

I did not know what it was when mom told me.
I did not know it when you slept in blue drapes.
I did not know it when you missed my rehearsal.
I did not know it when I saw blood in your smile.
I did not know it when it took you.

But now I know it,
know it enough to write a thesis.
I know all its crooks and crannies,
all the histories and complications.
The early signs and the medications.
It took a while, but I know it all now.
So I wrote my thesis on what killed you.

I labelled all the tiniest arteries,
I wrote of all the chemical compounds,
the mutations of the genes,
the factors that influence it.
I even wrote about the treatments.
I analysed the plethora of cases,
“At least 200,000 people every year are reported to die….”
You were one of them.
“Smoking and drinking were the most commonly found factors among…”
You weren’t one of them.

I wrote about what killed you,
I didn’t write about the beeping sounds
I didn’t write about the knots in my stomach
I didn’t write about crying at my rehearsal
I didn’t write about all the cords and tubes that didn’t save you.
I didn’t write about the flowers you could even lift your head to see.
All I could write was your first name on the cover.

I didn’t write a thesis on what killed me.
I wrote a thesis on what killed you.