I am not here. My flesh is present. My heart is beating, albeit feintly. You know, that part of your life when your pulse is so feint it might as well be motionless. And the lump in your throat won’t let you drink, eat or sleep. And silence is so inviting, like the pied piper of Hamlin’s flute, entrances you to slither into the crevices of caves that have no echoes… Just stagnant, cool water that makes crisp tinkly sounds that beg to be the last thing you hear before you float away towards the light. Maybe the bright light at the beginning of another tunnel. Perhaps my soul shall be recycled and repurposed.
I silently pray that after me, it inhabits a human with more strength and will to hold on to the thrill of being ‘here’. May they love unreservedly and be gifted with a father who carries them on their shoulders to look at horizons of their future that twinkle beyond the bumpy roads that run as far as the eye can capture. May they be better than me who just stands through all the beauty of life and doesn’t listen. I wish my soul didn’t want to leave my body to hide where the darkness lives. It deserves to be cradled in light and clothed in hope for less ache of the human spirit.
Frank Malaba 2018