Let’s talk about death.
Yes, death.
I know,
you’re probably wondering, “who talks about death?”
I do.
I do it courageously,
yet timidly,
like a child with a secret too heavy for his pockets,
but too delicate for his lips.
I speak of death because I know,
one day,
I will lie beneath the soil of my ancestors,
soaking in the dust of my father’s land,
a homecoming where no one sings.
Six feet under, I will be,
like my father before me,
and the fathers of fathers
whose names were lost
long before my tongue learned
the language of grief.
I haven’t made peace with death,
just like you haven’t.
It presses its weight on my chest,
a shadow I can’t shake,
a sorrow buried in silence,
the kind of silence that resounds
in places where laughter used to be.
The thought of losing someone
you’re used to seeing
is a gap
no bridge can span.
It’s a limb ripped from the body of your soul,
a phantom pain
that keeps reaching
for what isn’t there anymore.
And sure,
you can build prosthetics out of memories,
fashion artificial limbs
from old conversations,
but they will never function
like the real thing.
I hate death.
I hate its finality,
its audacity to steal
what we are not ready to lose.
I hate its silence,
how it robs us of voices
we still hear in dreams.
But hate or not,
death is a truth
we cannot escape,
a reality we cannot undo.
And when it speaks,
there’s always that quiet sorrow,
the truth we’re unwilling to face,
the call we’re afraid to answer,
knowing it’s a summon
we can never ignore.
So, I carry it with me,
not in defeat,
but in defiance.
I lace my words with its gravity,
so that every breath,
every heartbeat,
becomes a rebellion
against the quiet
waiting at the end.
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