To the Babylonians’ wine goddess.
We visited her house after she left for home.
The chaos was contained. Furniture that was jumbled in disarray sat in a motionless state, weighed down by what had happened. The sofas grounded themselves deep into the roots of the house in an attempt to avert triggering the tensed air. The walls were shutting out the light and holding on to his shadow.
Everything was in tears.
I heard the marble floors and wooden cabinets breaking down. Maybe, they’re afraid she’d abandon them too, I thought.
“There it is,” Min points to a beautifully carved wooden cabinet, coated in a dark chocolate brown. It was standing tall among the wreck. It might be the only thing here that hasn’t made a sound since we walked in.
She flung its doors open up. My unusual ways pushed me to my knees. He died in a place that held all his remedies, I thought again.
“This is beautiful,” I said.
She replied with a smirk.
I pulled out a clear lemon blend, poured it into my glass, and emptied it into my mouth before she walked in with hers.
She grabbed onto a bottle of malt and barley, blended into beautiful dark amber.
“Let’s make a toast.”
“To your uncle.”
“To my uncle.”
“Or to the water of life.”
Our glasses clinked to the man who lingers in her heart, and for unexplainable reasons, in mine too.
We carried ourselves to the living room. I laid on the sofa nearest to the door, adjacent to the one Min sat on. In front of me were two photographs she said her uncle took when he traveled. Behind me was a girl gulping down her grief.
“You know he died on this couch.” She sipped her drink for less than a second.
“No one helped me.” She drank again.
I stared at her blank-faced before I looked down at my drink then gazed around. The Buddhist statues filling the room were putting up quite a good front of serenity that no longer exists here.
Her voice faded into the background as I crawled on to the Persian carpet, examining the illustrations, searching for a voice in them. Maybe, they can tell me how to deal with this. I looked up to see a bright blue prayer rug that has been folded and placed on the couch’s arm.
I picked myself up and sat there, running my fingers through the fabric, trying to comfort it, asking it to calm down. I looked back at my glass and thought “I am holding god in my hands”.
Something put me off. I snapped back to reality and to see Min sitting cross-legged, crying into her arms. Almost thoughtlessly, I held her from behind and allowed my tears to follow hers.
Everything was quiet.
Coffee tables that once whimpered in pain and walls that screamed over the sounds of our voices shushed. They were staring at her, hoping they can hold her as I was.
Her uncle’s photographs looked down at her, wondering how they can swallow her despair and hang it as another memory on the wall.
“Al, I’m devastated”
God’s remedy worked. She has been cured.
2 thoughts on “The Spirits of Mourning”
My condolances for your loss! What a beautifully written description of this scene!
Thanks a ton for reading and liking my posts. I would be glad if I can have an honest review of my work, from an author of your calibre.