Bolivia

I. It was perfect in a bittersweet way The overcast day The fresh flowers The waiting The shades of black and grey The Padre Nuestro The father’s chanting II. They ushered him through a maze of flagstones well-polished by the varnish of water and the heavy footsteps of generations of mourners. For fifty pesos a stranger sang as we showered him with rose petals and rain. Amidst her wailing and her brothers’ silent despair and the cement mixed and laid thick to immortalise him, the sky stops crying and its blue eyes blink and I, for a moment, stare into eternity, into sorrow, into loss, into hope. Avenues upon avenues of memories in this city of the departed; yards and yards of carnations doing their best to defy time - but who can resist? Grief made her embrace linger, made us angels without wings, and stranded on earth, but angels nonetheless. III. Another Padre Nuestro Another sigh Another moment without him The first of too many.