My maternal grandmother passed away at 1:30 pm this afternoon.
We received the news through a phone call from an uncle, assigned I believe, with the hard task of informing relatives and acquaintances of the death.
My father received this phone call.
I was reading an article written by a friend of an intimate experience.
My sister was having her lunch.
We understand what this phone call means. A while later, my father speaks to us, relays the news. He asks us to call our mother.
A lot has happened since then.
My sister asks whether we should attend the funeral service. I tell her not to think too much, what has happened has happened. I see, it is a cold statement.
I finally sit down to write it down. My grandmother has died.
I attempt to light a lamp in her memory. My father tells me, it is prohibited to light a lamp in a house where death has occurred. I fail to see the logic in this custom. I give up. I am exhausted to argue.
But, I see, he is the only one who could take us through this experience. Only he could balance the grief and the mundane at this moment. I listen to him.
The house feels cold and melancholic.
No one has cried. We grieve in ways known to us.
I try to recollect the face of my grandmother. I pray to her. Peace be unto you, I whisper.
Peace be unto us.