The moon – as it is being pushed into the light (and as it flees) – resembles a scythe.
The kind that drags a sharp tip across your neck and runs away with your soul.
It is in those final moments that I will think of the dead that preceded me. I use the word “will” very loosely. For all I know, I may think of a funny scene or some science fact. I can’t decide which I hope for more.
I sometimes wish I did not understand death – that I would not fear it.
But I do.
And I know it because of the dead.
I know because of what it’s like to have sorrow shroud you like a suffocating blanket on a summer’s day. It’s a demon that croons in your ear to comfort you but saps you of energy and life and feeling.
I can’t think of a better noun to describe sorrow – demon doesn’t feel quite right – but I don’t really want to wrestle with my vocabulary right now. My mind is lacking as are my fingers.
There is a test in 2 days.
My mind is more scattered than normal. It is running into corners pulling out memories of those who sleep, cold. Blue flowers drying in the sun. Disappearing teeth and my giggling, clapping hands. Kolok mee. Rickety bicycles. Conversations exchanged in a foreign tongue. Cold aloe vera gliding over a bruised head.
Stolen quickly. Stolen slowly. Leaving only indelible marks in the form of memories vacuum sealed and packed away.