Was it just mere coincidence that the clock
she had in her bedroom stopped when her heart
stopped too? The other hearts that stopped in
unison as the news of her death reached them, the hurt was it
mandatory?
Were the batteries life dependent on hers? Like the people who lived for her?
Her body lays on the bed and
people surrounded her, praying. I cried. Not for
her. But for the people around her. How could they
live knowing she'll no longer be
there. She bears no feelings
now, the suffering she enclosed before are now
bestowed upon others. The agony of death; how could they
comprehend this living nightmare? It's a fact
they can't change. They've lived for her. It's a promise
they'll never break.
What could they have done
that they've never done already. What has she not
said that she hasn't already said? In the car, in the bed
room, behind the closed doors of her room. The
whispering of her once beating heart,
why wasn't it amplified into a scream. So
it could evolve as a hand to reach out and seek for
help beyond the means of humans.
Each story of hers shines
its presence in our lives, even if she
has passed. The sacrifices,
the love story, the relationships with loved ones, her good deeds.
These little little stories make up
a star each. The stars we see as the night peers through our window
will remind us of her, the one that lulls us to sleep
as the night evolves into luminosity. Now, as we seek
for the twilight, we'll see the constellation of her memories,
the love she's shared for
others spreads into spaces even memory can't reach.
A story, a legacy we will now live
for her, like how she lived for
her children,
her husband,
her parents,
her siblings,
her friends,
her God, our God.
We must lose
before we appreciate what
we have. We must hurt, before
we can love again. We must be
in pain, before we can find
reverie. We must live,
before we die, in life.
-May you rest in peace Grandaunt, and may allah forgive you for your mistakes and let it be overshadowed by the good you have done.