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Sunday, 23 October 2016

Almost Day

I like waking up early morning to walk. The world seems new, yet undiscovered. A virgin scene. No other people. No sounds. With winter around the corner, at six, the stars are still the only light in the ravine. Two mornings in a row, we saw a coyote behind our home sneaking off as we approached. Baby rabbits bob off, white tails in the air. And then slowly, slowly, with the deliberation of a bride unveiling, the dark lifts, moves off, the colours of fall emerge. Red, gold, green, and brown. In Urdu, we have a word for the fiery light that glows in the sky at sunrise and sunset: Shafaq.
By the time we return home to wake the kids, it is almost day. 

Saturday, 8 October 2016

The Dead are not Dead

It is the irrevocability of death that makes it so difficult to accept. I cannot through the force of my will bring back the people lost to me. I cannot breathe life into their bodies and make them smile again.

And yet, I do. I recall shared moments, I replay conversations, I recreate facial expressions, the gestures, the peculiar manners of speech, the gait, the posture; in sum everything that specified that person to me.

Death, perhaps, is not as final as it appears. In living, in loving, we each pass something of our interiority into those we are closest to; those moments of shared joy, grief, common experiences, a comment, an anecdote, those are the myriad ways by which, we breathe particals of ourselves, into the people dearest to us. It is how we live, well beyond our own physical lives.