Still In Process.

I think about the song they played at the gravesite,
half clear.half dis-tor-ted by the wind and w…ailing
I think about how she did not cry, how
she was held up by her daughter and an elder of the church,
who would later cook and dish for people
whose names were known and forgotten at introduction,
later serve a homeless woman claiming she’d taken her ARVs
I think about the detail in the way she scraped the sand off the shovel
dried eyed and determined.
I didn’t know if the wet blob on her skirt was piss or sweat,
But I remember thinking,
If that was me
two steps away from my beloved’s eternal home
I’d be drenched from every hole
all bodily fluids poisonous, reeking of wound and rage
And It wouldn’t be voluntary or pretty.
I observed her composure
Wondered how it was that she was not a yoyo of hysteria,
a wild animal tossing itself in the dirt
stirring those who lay beneath it.
I wondered about a lot of things that day.
My cousin said the man in the coffin did not look like you
I did not go. I have always thought viewings strange and impersonal
I stayed in my seat biting my bottom lip out of habit
or for comfort.
I didn’t want to see the dead version of you
I prefer this constantly changing memory
I think about my trip from Grahamstown to your bedside
The morning after, your paralysed hand stretched out with my assistance, to pray for me.
I think of you in the quiet and deserted one am
The only hour the world can stomach the grieving
When all the Gods are watching and the immortal are sleeping
I think of you
When I am eating 2 minute noodles.
When nobody expects it, I mourn you then,
In the mundane moments I have control over.


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