I am her kin and her descendent, her daughter’s daughter and no less.

She followed him to the grave, she did. Six weeks gone, she knew he’d be pacing the heavens, his transparent fingers pining for her, still living. I wonder if he tried to hold her hand while she lay in that bed, impatient to keep the love story going on the other side, frustrated in death that his hand held no power, plummeting straight through her. He must have roamed those corridors all forty two days, devoted and unseen.

Yet, she was always going to go in her own time, in her own way, choose her own last breath. She was in no hurry; she knew he’d still be there, pacing, loving; an impatient love he had, her’s so measured. His devotion fed her calmness, created it perhaps. She took her time to say goodbyes, such grace, such slender gentle hands which never lost the kindness or the colour, right up til final breath.

I am her kin and her descendent, her daughter’s daughter and no less. Though, some days I lose my grace, some days my tenderness. Some days I wander hallways and feel impatient and unseen. I understand his pacing, his insecurity, his loss; understand his grasping for you, craving for the calm you breathe. He couldn’t bear to lose you, so he gnashed his false teeth silently and held on tight to air; he waited faithfully.

I am her kin and her descendant, her daughter’s daughter and no less. Whether by design or divinity, its definitely not sheer luck. My slender hands are a given, are with me everywhere. The remainder I keep on seeking – the kindness and the grace, the calm and the devotion, and all the tenderness. My colour shifts with every mood, by subtle measurements. Yet I will let my body curve into another, allow love lines to form, leaning back to back or spooning, holding hands while we are living, devotion til my final breath.

I am her kin and her descendant, her daughter’s daughter and no less.