Visiting Carmen

We were hesitant to ring the bell, let alone enter the house at first. We eyed one another, in attempts to let the other person go first. I gave brother the big bouquet of white, unblossomed lilies, and perhaps he knew that it was a gesture that, as the oldest and also closest to the family, he should be the first to go in.

In the first room, I knew that she lay there. That was where I last spoke to her. Where I last held hands and kissed her on the cheeks. That was where I last said that I would come back to see her. And here I was, back to see her, yet she had already left.

We entered the room, dark except for the flickering dim tea light candles placed around the room. A scent, floral, fragrant, yet with a hint of medicine, the same one that lingered on the fingers which had held on to Carmen’s a few days earlier, entered my nostrils. And I saw her, lying there with her hands holding an arrangement of orchids on her chest, her eyes, face and posture resting and at ease. On her head a hat, and in the background was the low sound of machinery, which I imagined kept her remains cool. Beautiful and elegant bouquets of white and light shades of flowers surrounded her bed. I heard a sniff, and felt brother gently place his hand close to my shoulder.

We were silent as we stood and watched… the lady who so kindly looked out for us over the years, who selflessly cared and was genuinely concerned about our wellbeing, who invited us to Christmas and New Years celebrations because we had no close relatives here. Her carefree laughter echoed in my memories, her big grin and warm embrace still fresh in my mind. I closed my eyes and wished her peace, sent her good thoughts, and hoped that she finally found liberation from the suffering and pain of this world. And I thanked her… for being there for us whenever we needed advice or help, for the encouragements and hugs she gave to my mum, for attending my high school graduation when my parents could not be there, for the great talks and philosophising we had over coffee and tea…

Rest in peace, Carmen.