I always walk into social settings not knowing the right way to smile.
the last time I was out, it was a funeral
where uncles and fathers waited for the body quietly,
where mothers and aunts divided their time
sizing up every girl who walked in fresh,
evaluating the contents of moroseness on her face.
did her nail paint make her look well-maintained
and yet purposefully unaware of her manicure?
her clothes, were they the right balance of panache and mourning?
and what about her mannerisms? is she polite and demure,
is she the girl next door? is she an acquaintance? is she family?
well, if she is, why isn’t she in the right colours?
how bold of her to wear eyeliner!
her mother ought to have taught her these things.
cue scrutinizing the parent, the birth giver:
at least she’s wearing white clothes. her fingernails are light pink?
eyebrows rise up in the odd combination of judgement, approval , and the tiniest hint of contempt.
the grandmothers come out from the woodwork
because their experience and expertise in death is unparalleled by the young:
they seize responsibility of the rituals,
tutting at the slightest deviations of the routine they’re well-versed in.
what a business they make of death.
the loss isn’t theirs to feel, the life isn’t theirs to grieve.
‘the head faces the north, the toes to the south! don’t spill the grains unevenly! come, let me tilt open the mouth so you can quench the thirst of the dead with holy water.’
they know it all, those devious grown-up so-and-so’s. we’re still too alive for their acquiescence. they’re so assured in their rites, they’d take over from you at their own deathbed.
they’re watching you very closely, don’t you forget.
they’re not here for the deceased, they’re here to inspect.
I stay under the radar with my tight-lipped smile,
they may not live for too long, but I’ll be here for a while.
