The programs are cold in my hands,
thin paper tombs for lives once lived.
I trace their faces, smooth and still,
eyes laughing, smiles wide—
as if they might speak,
as if they might rise.
I am no Jesus,
And they are no Lazarus,
they do not rise.
And these pages stays cold
I never saw them cold in their coffins,
never let my eyes betray
the truth of their leaving.
My last memory is warm unlike their bodies:
their voices, their breath,
their hands clasping mine. Kongosity.
Now, I hold only this—
sheeted echoes of RIPs.
I never teared at the funerals.
The tears waited, patient,
until the world grew cold, quiet and apart,
until the silence of their absence
settled into the hollows of my chest.
Now, I drink to blur the edges,
and soften the sharpness of a world…
a world without them.
Is there closure in death?
I do not know.
The questions linger though—
unanswered, unanswerable.
How do I live in such a world
and breathe in the air they cannot?
How do I carry the weight
of their laughter, their love,
their unfinished stories? Hi Tiphanie… Bye Charles…
Perhaps closure is not a door
but a thread—
a weak, fraying thing
that ties me to them,
to the warmth of their memory,
to the cold of their absence.
Perhaps grief is not an end
but a bridge,
a way to keep walking
while holding them close.
So, I stroke their faces on paper,
then take a drink, then I cry.
Not because they are gone,
but because they were here.
Because they were alive.
Because they were mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Nyamani Marwa Matiko is a Kenyan writer and poet exploring themes of healing, identity, and resilience. His fiction delves into complex human experiences, tackling issues like trauma, self-discovery, and family dynamics. Through his storytelling, he captures raw emotion and the search for meaning in life’s struggles. Nyamani’s work gives voice to untold stories and fosters deeper conversations.
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