Goddess of Death

When my grandfather was on his deathbed, he didn’t

move toward the light. At his feet, there were four

jamdoots, two on each side of the bedpost, waiting to

take him home. His children waiting in line with

spoonfuls of water, one drop for every grandchild

who would outlive him. My father was the last to

water his dry mouth, hold his bony fingers. We knew

it was coming. Grandfather had been sick for years,

bedsores erupting every few days, muscles refusing to

mobilize, food undigested, his bedroom a mausoleum

of pills. The room dark and foggy, his clan silent in

prayer, waiting for the goddess of death to descend.

Stomachs bloating with the angst of suffocating

between two worlds. The jamdoots carpeting for

her arrival. Sons terrified of her wrath, her sprawling

tongue when enraged, her skin the color of a new

moon night, unruly hair, bloodshot eyes. Unforgiving

mother lest one surrenders. When he finally caught

a glimpse of her, he levitated. He wasn’t scared.

Death came at dawn. How gently she carried him.