WE WERE listening and singing to this song playing on the car stereo before, until you made a morbid request that one day. I tried to laugh it off then, but time soon proved that you were dead serious about it.
We did as you said.
The song ended as soon as we left the car. Its rather mellow tune has haunted me since the day we played it at your funeral.
As the car brought us closer to the cemetery, I wondered if you were on your way, too. We’ll eat Mama’s spaghetti, your favorite, as if you were here with us. Papa is wearing one of the sweaters you left behind; your scent is gone. We bring your framed picture with us, a bouquet of lilies and the fluffy brown teddy bear you used to sleep with.
Each grave we pass has its own novelties, the last reminders of who the dead were. To me, yours is the most beautiful. We made yours look like a garden with our colorful trinkets, flowers and gifts. Your eyes on your portrait seem to follow me wherever I go.
I imagine you hugging your bear again, like bunso, who you never got to meet. Maybe it’s darker and colder there than it is here, and I hope these candles bring you warmth and light.
Sewn with chaos and tangled thoughts, I still hope you hear the prayers in my mind.
Time will pass, and we’ll have to leave this place soon, and so will your soul. Where we’ll go from here, I may never know. I’ll play your song over and over until its tune becomes your voice again, until it no longer haunts me. F – Anthea Anika de Sales
