You see, since the first woman I called home, I called my heart, I called my peace left, it has been trying to wrap itself around this loss. This feeling of emptiness, of nothingness. A feeling of too much grief and very little love.
I’ve been grieving her death and mine since the day the hospital called asking me to come pick up her clothes.
I remember that day and it’s pain. Breathe Siyanda I say, breathe.
She’s just sleeping I convince myself. I convince myself that just like Jesus, she too will be resurrected.
It will be okay.
It never is okay.
I go from disbelief to hallucinating. I speak to her through dreams, I speak to get in daylight, I laugh, I sing, dance, get into bed in the evenings and cry my heart out.
I wait eagerly for the rapture, the resurrection whichever comes first doesn’t matter.
As long as she returns to me, she must return.
I spend a few months in this state, I become bizarre, I speak to myself, laugh alone, avoid going out in the daytime, sing to the moon at night and plead with God for herself return when I have no energy to dance to the moon.
The nagging feeling that she might not return tags at me, I rebuke the devil and plan her return. With the same energy I plan my own funeral.
Roses for the memorial, read poetry and don’t read an obituary. These people already know of your life. They need not an obituary to remind them.
I sit in the kitchen and take the pills out, I read up on the quickest way to die, I think of prayer, does one smile when they die? Do you jubilation because you are returning to your loved ones or do we merely die.