That evening, He reads the 

list of names out for me from

the sheet of paper in the living room as

I write the names of the invitees

on the center of the sparkly red card

envelope for my sisters’ wedding.

I slide the handful of cards

in the black weathered metal box

of my red Honda motorcycle in the garage

and turn key firmly in the lock for delivery

next morning.

 

At dawn, I wake up to the loud

sobbing noise outside. I dash to the door

 and run one level down just left

 of the living room in only my

white baggy shorts.

 

He lies sideways on the floor

 beside his low floor bed with

his mouth hanging open. His eyes

staring into space. His face resting

in a shallow pool of his own

blood dripping from front of his skull.  

We wipe his face, take off

 his outer clothing and toss it

 in the corner of his room.

We cover his body with

the strip of white holy cloth.

We flush out his floor with

 bucket of Dettol water & stick

burning sandalwood incense

 in the skin of banana near his feet.

 I hold my hands chanting prayers for his soul

 

Today, as I look at his portrait

the heaviness of loss settles into my soul.

My grandfather now silently lives inside the

 four corners of the aluminum frame

 that hangs from the corner

of the same living room wall.

 

Gopes Niraula @2019