The day after I died, I woke up
with a knot in my throat, a
rising crescendo of goodbyes that
reminded me of the last day of
school, bubbling up and simmering
down, ‘summer will be over soon,’
but this one would not, and I
realised that when I sat next to
my sister, watching her watch
my body– it was not me, I was
here and it was there on the ground,
disguised with a white shroud, like
the sheet would temper the fact
that lay before us, incriminating,
it was almost a shield that hid
the body from the anguish on the
faces before it, and my father sat
stoic, as always, knuckles white
as he seemed to sag against my
mother, a crumbling edifice with
its foundations drowning because
of porous concrete that went into
its making, and she seemed smaller–
hearts have a way of shrinking to
hide from immediate pain, of folding
into themselves to undo suffering,
and I went up to the shell that lay
there, and lay next to it, willing, ever
so hard, for a way to undo what
impulse had wrought, but the body
was not me, I was here, and as the
unrelenting summer coursed through
me, I curled up on the ground,
watching rites and rituals give solace
to those I could not reach again,
the knot in my throat intensified–
true death hid all those words that
would now, remain forever unsaid.

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