A once white sheet is spread on the floor. It is sweltering outside, the sun rude even on your parting day. A group of women sit, on the sheet, before me. Their faces contorted with forced sadness. Among their gossip, they talk about how extremely kind you were and how soft-spoken.
Hell, they don’t even know you. Do they?
You were kind. But we both know you never fared with words well. When you spoke, you only cared about the wasteful light in the next room or the unclean dishes in the kitchen sink. Careless observations or passive-agressive commands. Depending on your mood.
For a strong woman, you had a funny giggle. Some laugh like a tea pot, some like a violin, yours was a choo-choo train. Periodic yet rythmless. Two loud snorts mixed with the Ha-ha-has, three seconds later, vibrations hit the room and your tummy flopped around like jelly. Each time, we flapped around you like idiots imitating your laugh and begging “One more time Grandma, one more time, Please”. Grace is a fad.
They’ve took your body away at dawn. You must be ash now. Does your ash fly when your soul giggles? Do the other souls leave the lights turned on in an empty room?