We didn't turn around

My Grandmother on my Father's side died yesterday afternoon.

And just like a well rehearsed nation wide defense drill, people scrambled like fighter planes, contorting their way out of tight corners and mobilizing before my aunties house where she lay, a little more quietly than she had before. I could hear Chopin's Nocturne in G minor play out.

The next morning Kristin, a colleague of mine told us about her brush with death when her villa in Bali had exploded due to faulty Gas main. I sat transfixed by the proximity of death, as I watched her hands move excitedly mimicking the spray of glass. The story was funny and it was told in a charming manner, but I couldn't hep but think back to the afternoon before.

Before I'd understood why I was holding my grandmother's mouth shut - because riga-mortis would set in soon, and we wouldn't want her jaw to be hanging open when she was put in the casket.

The flesh under her jaw was warm to touch, probably warmed by the heat of my auntie's hand which had been holding the jaw shut before me.

There was a moment I was about to cry.

But I didn't.

I was afraid to ruin the intricate performance.

The awkward but stoic last performance, the grandest final scene.

I held her face tight, as I struggled with my face to contain the tears I'd already started making since I'd flagged that taxi to get there.