Grandfather

Three days ago, on the day of the death of my grandfather, I sat still with my cousins in the living room, waiting for our turn to give our last kisses to his flowery-scented body.

My grandmother couldn’t move her feet due to her illness, she remain seated next to his coffin and cried out to him desperately. My youngest aunt burst into tears after her last kiss, my mother hugged her and said it was our turn: the grandchildren.

I moved closer to the shrouded body, kneeled by his side and touched his forehead with the tip of my nose. It was jasmine, rose, reminisce and all lively scents, as it is him who’s breathing out the flowers. I couldn’t think of a prayer for him. I couldn’t think of anything at all.

I was busy feeling his wrinkled skin to mine, inhaling his pheromone with all my strength, while trying so hard to hold back my tears from falling to him. I was being an egoic-head who’s craving for his body. The body that made my existence possible, the body where my blood and vein were rooted.

I went back to my spot, covered my red-face with my hand and let the sorrow take over me. My sisters cried in a hug. My mother was there too, calming them down.

“He’s now in a better place. He’s free of the pain,” she said while stroking their backs.

I joined the hug after a moment of solo-heavy-cry and made the most heartbreaking grief in the world.