Sunday is always the best day to die. No? You dont think so? Sit your ass right there, I will tell you just why.
When you wake up from Saturday, the sun might just peep out, or the sky might be crying, dripping tears down to the ground in slow motion. Everything about a Sunday morning is lazy, the news are read slow, the Tv plays `nara ekelemoo` which sometimes wakes you up, or sometimes it puts you straight back to sleep e.But it always happens, when the Gods are a little giddy with the praises, that`s when hell wakes up with vengeance, and its always the best day for all your favorite people to walk out of the earth , right in your hands.
I didn`t want to write this, but I do remember January 21st like today. I can still breath the clean dry air of that day.It was just another day, a post form four euphoria and confusion day. But I remember more, the time, the way the minutes ticked by with some sort of laziness, as if they did not want to move, as if they had some ominous feeling on their own . But each of us had to live, me and my brother Siam. So we woke up, haggled over what to wear and finally decided on what to wear. That`s usual for all of us. We bargain over what to wear.
Then its a blur all the way. A blur that finds me standing outside the casualty of the hospital, wondering where it all went wrong. The blur ends with me in a set of dripping clothes, shorts that are stuck on my body, my hair standing on all edges, my breath coming in bursts,the eyes seeking to cry but they cant. And this question that seeks answers but has none.This blur wants me to sing Lucky you, fuck you too but then then the song was not there. It was just Lil Wayne and Eminems No love ringing in my ears. I had been listening to it all day.
`Dont die on me and grow wild flowers
But it`s fuck the world,get a child out her,
Yeah my life a bitch, but you know nothing about her
Been to hell and back, I can show you vouchers

The beat plays ad nauseum in my head, an endless loop that seeks to drag me into an abyss of hate and desperation.

” You mean all along he chose a Sunday to go?”
” You mean god never rests from taking people? Even on the sabbath which he himself declared holy?”
“Is this really happening?”
There are tears in the room. Shouts. More tears. Tearful hugs that smell of desperation.But he lay there, peaceful, peaceful as a Sunday morning. He lay there saying not a word. His toes starting to turn blue.

While the rest of the world wailed his passive face jested at me, it jested at my dad when he came to see his son, the product if his work. It jested at everyone. But in this jest I saw something beyond him, I saw the `not him` that was so him. I saw the halo roll by with time.

The blur had faded away, the time had moved with weight, now the seconds move with some sort of uneasy ease that spoke of relief. The white foam on the side of his mouth dried up, and so did our tears, for a moment. While everyone piled into the car, to go back home, to make`funeral arrangements` I hang back, to talk with the morgue attendant, probably to have that one last look. But the tears had dried, his life had dried too. His fingers were not twirled as they had been when I rushed him to hospital, in a car borrowed, a car that had hit every little pot hole on the road. They were curled in jest, and that`s just how he went, his face in passive jest,a jest of eternal calm and some sort of half relief.
So the metallic gully took the last turn, like a turn to the graveyard. It clunk on the gravel with some sort of finality. Then it went into the doors, the man pushing it heaving with emotion,and I behind him, I who should have been crying in a world of my own, heaving with the weight of the world thrown on to me. The weight of knowing not what was coming ahead of me, the weight of thinking what the other side, the side across the bridge that he had crossed.
Sunday was always the best day to die . And I too hope that I will waft away as the church bells clang. It’s a holy day, to die.

Author: kantai

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