the procession

I had read somewhere that they glue the lips together.

Maybe that explained his weird look. He’d never purse his lips like that.

I looked down to his left temple and saw the familiar constellation of white skin spots and freckles.

I slid my hand into his. Heavy. Cold.

The kind of cold that sucks the warmth away.

So this is what death feels like.

I stood there staring at him as if waiting for something to happen. Hand getting colder.

I peered around the chapel with its plastic flowers, patterned carpet and the too bright TV screen that displayed his name with a white animated dove.

The stale perfumed air thickened around the casket causing my already shallow breaths to get caught in my chest.

The four walls and floor felt suddenly encroaching. I tore my gaze up toward the small sky light searching for salvation.

I felt a memory drift toward me like a gentle breeze, catching me and sweeping me away into the reverie of a dream I had had years ago.

I was in a village walking behind a group of women. A baby had died and they were taking the body to the burial grounds. The newborn in the arms of the mother.

Guttural sounds crawled out of her as she cradled her child with such tender care. A woman behind fell to her knees beating the red earth with vengeful fists. Another had hands held to the heavens palms open desperately calling unanswered pleas to the gods. Some women were solemn, chanting prayers under their breath, while others shook and shuffled in hypnotic dance singing songs of sorrow to guide the spirit home.

The men watched quietly from the huts. This was women’s business. Their turn would come.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights brought me back to the room.

I read my father’s name and watched as the animated dove flapped it wings with nowhere to go.

I wanted to scream, strip bare and howl at the waning moon, rip out my hair piece by piece to feel the pin prick pain of each strand leaving me. I wanted to roll around the dry dusty dirt sending cries up to the sky until my voice turned to thunder and my tears turned to mud.

But I just stood there. Paralysed by his stillness. Hypnotised by his eternal silence.

Heart aching wails violently trapped between flesh and fear. Stifled screams suffocating in the condensing air of decorum.

I stared down into the fading stars on his ghostly face.

My hand now as cold as his.