December 2012

Death settled inside a candle-lit home where mourners struggled to comprehend an incomprehensible parting of a soul. The living talked of the dead without knowing how, with silences that needed no filling, with tears and smiles that masked sadness. They recalled memories and wondered how they could cope with a permanent absence of a physical body. The spirit remained alive, floating around the house, on the walls, between the cracks, inside the rug fabric, in between door hinges.
Death settled in at night, pinching my skin like a needle going through my body, the way the names of dead uncles permeate and live inside my skin, trapped with a trace of sharp blade. These are the names of the dead that live forever in me. I look at the living, the passengers on the train. I look at the hands that hold another living being, at eyes that are vibrant with color, at faces that lust after life. We are the living and we hold the memory of the dead without ever knowing where they’ve gone. The names of the dead pinch my skin like a sharp blade and I close my eyes to retain their faces, their names.

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