A Requiem

On the day the earth, the moon and the sun were aligned, you died.

You woke up that morning, prayed, took your bath, laid your false teeth on the bedside table, laid down on our bed, and went away quietly. Everyone said you knew. You were 84 years old.

And now I am here, in this empty house, filled with our children and their children, filled with the furniture you carefully selected, filled with your pictures, your clothes, your glasses, your violin. The house is full. The house is empty.

This house had had its share of guests. They came for weddings, for the birth of a baby, for Hari Raya celebrations and now, for a funeral. And many guests came for three consecutive nights to read the Yaasin for you. People who knew of your illness and meant to visit but never could find the time. People who didn't know and didn't hear from you for years. People we forgot we knew, people we worked with but had to leave, people we were related to by blood but stayed away because of some petty argument. They all came too late. All eager to throw their pity on me. To ask me how I am, to ask me how you died, to tell me they were sorry, to try to reassure me when all I wanted was your voice, your face, your hands.

I watched as they wrapped you in cotton, in folds of white cloth and they tied you up. You looked so small. I smelled the rose water they sprinkled all over you and longed for the smell of the aftershave you were so fond of. I watched as my grandchildren, our grandchildren, lined up to kiss your face for the last time. I watched our grown sons wipe away their tears as they bent low to murmur their apologies in your covered ears, to kiss your cheeks and stroke your head. Many years ago, it was you who wiped their tears, who stroked their head, who kissed their chubby cheeks. I watched our daughters sob in the arms of their husbands, their little girls tugging on their mother's dress, uncomprehending of what the men were doing to their grandfather.

The women crowded around me, whispering to me, telling me to be patient, telling me that it was your time, that it was God's will, that you went away peacefully. I smiled and nodded. You would have been proud of my restraint. You would have known, just by looking at my face, that all I wanted to do was scream at them and lock myself in the bedroom. Our bedroom. You would have known how to cheer me up.

They prayed for your soul before they buried you. I was not allowed to go. I don't know if I want to see where you were buried. I don't know if I could stand watching my sons, our sons, throw dirt onto your covered body. They told me there's a big tree next to your grave, that its branches leaned towards you, shading your resting place. Of this I am glad. You never did like the hot sun.

That night it rained. People talked of floods, of great storms. I wondered if you could feel the rain where you are. I wondered if you could hear the wind. I wondered if you could hear the people in the house, speaking so fondly of you, retelling stories of all the things you did while you were alive. I wondered if you could hear me.

People say that if a person knew he was about to die, that means he had a relatively good life. You knew and you didn't tell me. Perhaps you couldn't, perhaps you didn't want me to worry. After all, how could I ever prevent it from taking place? I tried to remember everything you did and said to me before you went, perhaps there were some hidden message, some signal you tried to give me. But I am old. The mind falters at recent things and clings stubbornly to moments that occured twenty years past when we were happier.

I knew this day would come. I knew you would be the first to leave. And yet, I was not prepared. They took me to the hospital that night, and I half-wished that I could die right there and then. But that would have been too much for our children to bear. I remember what you said.

So here I am. Everyone has left. One of our daughters wants to bring me home so I won't be so lonely. She doesn't know that loneliness had already claimed me the morning you died. I suppose I have to put on a brave face. Always think of the children, you said. Very well. But I will be waiting for the day when the sun, the moon and the earth will be aligned again. Perhaps, then, you and I will be reunited.

First draft: October 10th 2002