by Isabel Emily Barber
“Listen for their names in the wind,
for yours is soon to follow.”
Some whispered it, others chanted it. They were words that had pinched at my throat, forcing me into silence. I had heard them more today than ever in my life. The saying was an old one; one that was said for the dead and remembered among the living. It was recalled well, as everyone knew that they had their hands bound when it came to the end. It was all a part of the passage of life; death was just the last step taken.
But no one could shake this dread from me. No words of condolence could comfort me. Grief worked in mysterious ways, and it chipped away at the small of my heart. Once a feeling of peace was kept safe in the pit of my stomach. It was nurtured, it was cared for, it was loved. But it lasted no more than my mother did, as this once peaceful feeling inside began to rot away.
She laid lifeless on top of the pyre; the pretty flowers in her hair slowly turning to ash. From where I was standing it looked as if they lit up in a glow just for an instant; before they burnt away.
It was dusk and the flames warmed me, serving as the only source of light as day slipped away and night crawled in. I faced the scorching structures. There was a pain to the warmth, but I couldn’t step away.
Several other funeral pyres stood tall. All placed in a crescent shape, and each separated by four metres of land. My mother was in the middle, she was high above where no mortal could reach. The beams of the fruitwood had slowly begun to succumb to the fires; they were turning to ember and charcoal, groaning as they tilted and blazed. I had carved my memories of my mother into the bark. It was a family tradition, to send the dead their memories.
One was also meant to sing, but nothing felt right.
Nothing felt right at all.
No words could explain the anguish.. It hurt more to speak than to be silent. With silence came the comfort of memories.
I could feel my mother’s tender fingers; soft and light against my hair, braiding away. I could hear her voice; it draped over me like a blanket. I felt solace, the kind you find in dreams—but it was a phantom of my mind. I was sure of it; she was not truly with me. I had heard of these things. They plagued you, inside and out. Some people recovered from it; others were driven to madness by it. But I couldn’t help but relish in the moment despite the guilty feeling, for my mother was closer now. She was alive once more and if I had just closed my eyes . . . it would be just like before, when her fingers were warm.
I could still remember every detail of my mother’s face. Her round umber eyes, her sweet face shaped like a heart. With every blink of my eyes my mother became clearer. From the small dimple on her chin; a pinch from the Gods for good luck, to her crooked little fingers. The same as my own. I was made in her likeness, my mother’s only legacy left to the world.
But what did I have left but myself?
A ghost. A figment of my mind. Something to fester there whilst I wept. It would eat away at me.
What I knew of life was slipping away from my reach. All I could see was that my fate was reflecting my mother’s; being burnt whilst people sang and danced around her, life at their fingertips.
I imagined myself up there in the smoke and fire looking down on everyone; seeing their faces, their families, the lives I will never live.
I had this terrible gut feeling that everything was going to be different.
