Loss, sweet and bitter

When my grandmother died,

There were no wailings, no bitter tears.

We didn’t beat  ourselves up against the earth like we were trying to tattoo a crack on the ground.

In my eyes she has always been old.

Her creased face like she was born an antique.She always had more past than future.

The news came accompanied with jokes.We traded memories of her like the one time she told my bullish elder brother to sit on her frail legs.We laughed a little too loudly

like we were mocking death.

When I told my elder brother how it happened,

He couldn’t even pretend-to be shocked. It  was like a punctual  prophecy coming to fulfill its time.

My granny called my younger brother  “million” instead of “Gideon”. Quizzed everyone she could.

Said this was  my mother’s vengeance. She knew she couldn’t give my mother a lot but hoped her grand child  was wealth enough.

And they all laughed at her like we did death.

My grandma died in hands of my mother. She was being fed breakfast. My mother kept feeding her pulseless body like she didn’t want her ghost to go  hungry in the afterlife.

She was unaware until my dad told her her mother was out of breath. It’s true,  this is evidence that sometimes you may carry a dead thing and perceive no stenches, see no rottenness.

We celebrated her death like a transfiguration. When she was lowered beneath the earth we chanted good memories, bade her farewell with victory songs —for my grandma loved to dance

even  when her stiff bones spoke otherwise.

When my ex left,

I realized loss is a fucking paradox.

I was left light but grew a heavy heart—she didn’t die, I was ghosted.

There were no final words, no goodbyes, no reasons why.

I mourned her in silence, my heart wrapped in black.

My chest was the tombstone that buried our memories in the sands of time.

Two years later, when she reincarnated,

I ran for my dear life.

For my ancestors always told tales

of  how you don’t live after seeing a ghost.