It was merely a Sunday when I was told of the funeral.
They walked like they were already leaving. Love has changed shape, they say. I see it everywhere. Sheets that never wrinkle anymore. Two toothbrushes angled like strangers. Sickness emerges and festers within the heart, a symptom of surrender. Bones shuddered under the weight of silence, ragged breaths in the hallway and time dragging on relentlessly. Witnesses to deaths reflection in cold dinners and face down photographs. Glares that could shatter glass.
The paintings had hung at an angle. Behind the couch, a small side table bore a family photo, its glass cracked along one edge, distorting the smiling faces beneath. Their words fell like slow knives and my hands had gripped the couch as tight as it could, fearing my insides would cave within. They told me it was over, peeling the words gently, consoling and comforting. The grave was dug before the body had been wrapped. Words slipped through my fingers.
Closing my eyes as their words blur together, their voices drowning. With weary hands, I tried to fit them slowly back together. But the insistent beating of my heart was not as stubborn as my wishes and the sight beheld remained. Their sentences were strung with deceit. I smell the rot in their smiles, I see their fingers stiff like soldiers in retreat. Fury crawled up my throat.
'Will you cut me in half too?' I asked.
No one answers. Neither of them looks at me. Death never speaks unless it chooses to. The couch had sagged unevenly, cushions pushed apart and the living room light flickered faintly, casting long shadows that stretched across the faded carpet. The air tasted like regret, thick and choking, pressing down on my ribs with that suffocating panic that I could not lift. My breath chants a bitter tone.
I am burdened, for I resent them for giving up, for leaving me here with a body cold and lifeless. I curse the corpse but my feet find the ground and wet sorrow stains my sight. Death peered at me and I peered back. Its lips trembled, a thin line stretched tight and their jaw clenched hard. Their eyes could never keep still, too quick. Too practised in the performance of sorrow.
They spoke at me. The necessity of moving on. Of not making the same mistakes. The body lay a mangled mess at my feet and I trace the jagged edges where life had been torn apart. The dead seem to know why I weep on the floor. They cannot move. I wonder if corpses dream of breathing again. I wonder if I can breathe again.
I ask for the bill, the punishment. The cause. They told him, the body had given up. Their lungs were brittle and had finally collapsed within itself.
Did they scream? I sought to ask. But silence ensued. It died then. Laid down, closed its eyes and stopped fighting. This isn't your fault, they beg. Sight would still suffice me. But not all have that strength. How dare they call this life?
I scream of compromise until my voice is black and blue. They don't seem to listen. The body lays and I urge it to fight. To escape death like so many others succumbed to. I urge it to be better. But death is irreversible. Grief remains, in empty bedrooms, buried aches and closed windows. And when the dust settles, its winter. Always winter.
Mourners ask me questions. Softly, like lullabies.
Did you see the signs? Was death really that close?
As if love can only die if someone heard the gun go off. Does it matter where the bullet came from when you're already half bleeding out?
I answer in half sentences. Shrugs. Head shakes. The child is always the quietest in the morgue. They pat me on the shoulder. 'You were made from love,' they say.
Maybe thats true. But I've just seen what love looks like when left to die.