Eulogies

--alchemising feelings into short stories.

The Eulogy of Me

Well, Angela, I have picked my day to die. I've made it impossible to cry about it—well, no, there is no plan yet; I just have the time. It is one month after my second birthday at the twenty-second tick of the clock. The minutes caught up with me and whispered: Ha! Right after I’d choked on seconds. Luckily the hour and milliseconds arrived with some decorum.

Goodness, it will have been two hundred and forty-two years out here in the Wide Open; ei! I’m impressed. My goodness have I lived through unrewarding decades. My grandmother Esi Bobowa was a champion fighter and I, her granddaughter, have been hailed a champion alchemist. I have not lived a useless life by any means. Sliding on water, dancing in fires, roaring and gulping tears, falling with the rain all in this tiny body, and this courageous, limited, incredible mind—goodness, my magic. Ou-my magic!

I want my last service gasping beauty. I want flowers, oranges and greens with speckles of white blooms. Give me my flowers—you’d better start growing them now; organise an immersive experience. Start the arrangement with nasturtiums. There ought to be coarse stems with finger-pricking raspiness to protect their minerals from the bugs. Add proteas, green cymbidium orchids, and ranunculus. Kiss each petal, stroke the vases – be delicate with the vases – and scratch every thorn. Do this with levity. Marry the blooms in each bundle, but divorce them each time Maɛ’Muna fails to hoard her proverbs as you work. And she will. Play this game for me. If your eyes well up, hold its topography dear. Water y/our moments.

Angela, honour your command of precision.

Patience can cook a stone.

With a 12-party choir, sing for me. Note, overzealous vibratos must not enter that stage; ɛnu nyɛ me taste. I want you to play with powerfully soft tones. Choose voices as young as five and as old as one hundred. Paint the harmonies with colour as I taught you, with resounding hues only the soul can hear. Begin the service with “when the music fades”, build it slowly, and work away from the original F♯/G♭ key to E major; this way, the notes shimmer. End the service with “light of the world, you stepped down into darkness, open my eyes let me see”. Bellow to me.

Sweetness, learn to afford your discretion.

Your joy needs no chaperone.

I want my last service to be full of laughter and truths. On the walls, I want still images of my mouth defying gravity—show just how much I talked; clips of me unabashedly yelling strange sounds—show how often I teased the line between stinging sorrow and inexplicable joy—show how much I felt. In the corridors erect wooden pillars. On them, place my anthologies—showcase what is vivid within me, how wildly I lived. And when no one is looking, tip something over. Make a poltergeist out of me! I must leave the Wide Open straddling shocked chortles; aghast and satisfied. So include my spoken-word poetry. Yes, the one about your father and I’s first separation —yes, exactly, the very hateful piece with stage directions. —I know, he will love that.

Let my ashes name their urn. Don’t let them play the fool. And tease them, pester them back if they carve anything tricky. When it is done, take us to a quiet place and invite Me with this sentence: "The music has faded, all is stripped away, come now; Atarah Simply, be here." And there I will be, star-birthed, evidence that dying edifies the soul and uncloaks the unseen substances of the spirit. There I will be, proof of everything I hoped for. —Yes La, I promise I will. Now, listen closely.

—curse every toe that hastens you.

Have courage

Remember that waiting is not a matter of dignity.

Have Purpose

Do not seize time; you’ll have to wait.

Be patient

And while you wait, find out if dignity could be the sum of individual acceptance.

Have courage

Revive every smile wise in its witness of you.

Be blessed

Angela, honour your command of precision.

Be blessed

React to your tenderness and bend only to the littlest parts of you.

Be You

We are reverence embodied.

—Now, go on, go back and wake me up! Ask me where I’ve been, ask what stories are hidden under my tongue, and when I am done, ask me if I have loved living.

***

Hi, T. gah–mm, uh, have you loved living?

—Well, Angela, I have picked my day to die. And-I uh, uhm, why are you—I made it impossible for you to—oh. You know. Give me your hand; I’ll take you back to my start. I want to gift you time.

***

The Eulogy of You

Ma, show me how you breathe.

I am looking to extend your exhales.

I can't wait for the lilies to bloom; nature’s demure stars. I’ll pack them in Taa’s flower arrangements for her funeral next week. They'll act as white speckles amidst the oranges and greens. If not, edelweisses will do, blossoms of snow, they’ll do. I’ll also snip a few into the locket I’ll inherit from Taa. I’ll pack it tight, I’ll want it heavy around my neck, a short distance from my heart.

My mum asks a lot of me. Impossible things like cooking stones. Sweet things like honouring my expenditures. Tedious things like marrying flower blooms. Awkward things like pranking guests at her funeral.

Ma, I will live a life of ease.

I have learned from your inhales.

Atarah-Talia has lived many lifetimes, buried with soil and flowers for centuries, but this time, she won’t be returning to this plane to meet the needs of her soul. This time, she says, she will arrive star-born, ascended past the mortal tests and into Oneship with her divinity. She will venture to see me through ashes, no longer physical. It crushes me. I will fumble for her and only meet her myths.

My mum shares a lot with me. She talks so much that I can’t think much about what it will feel like letting her go. I am just swimming in her cadence, bouncing on her instruction notes and surrendering to the weight of her acceptance. Last week I had another bout of odd(ly demanding) conversations with Taa. She walked into our cream office and lamented about how she'd finally picked her day and specific time to die, the back of my eyes immediately stung in response. My eye muscles ached but she had made it impossible to cry about it. Her magic was like that, it could sharpen your mind and make your heart stammer. My nails were fragile but I bent them into my palms anyway. Weeping through my fingertips.

When I saw you pinch your eyes shut and tighten your lips,

I knew that I would widen my eyes and sway my hips.

I have seen her heal untouchable wounds with an insistence on sharp wails that cut through the body to bear warrior-like witness to its gasping pain. I have seen her heal untouchable wounds. Ones with an insistence on sharp wails, cutting through the body to complete sorrow, revenge, and devotion. She is wickedly strong. Epicly strong. I am, too. I am a grounding, sculpting force; charging earth with echoing light, charging footsteps and paces with joy’s determination.

I will dance and dance and dance until the music fades away.

–Was that good? Poetry is Taa’s medium. I like to feel with clay.

***

.How?–

***

Ah!

***

Dad would love that.

***

Do you promise you will come?