August 1999

I remember his feeble body. His limbs were like sticks with clay smudged around them: trying in vain to deflect from the façade of disease. His eyes fluttered erratically, yet his breathing was monotonous as the machine pumped the life-giving air into him. His lips were cracked, and his skin was transparent and yellow. His body was devoid of any spirit or life and I had an apoplectic feeling: guilty for my own health.

My melancholy was antagonized by the light streaming into the room from the windows, the beams undulated invisible waves of cheeriness into the stark and colour- lacking room. Suddenly I received the inkling that even if the drugs and the machines were a source of palliation, it would be ok.

So as I followed the crowd into the mausoleum, I was beginning to accept what had happened. I remained inconspicuous near the back of the crowd, as I didn't care where I was, just as long as I was there. My mind failed to function properly, except for the rudiments like walking and sitting. I must have looked like a zombie, for I did not direct my attention anywhere, just merely gazing out into the distance. Hours, or minutes later, the crowd dispersed, and I followed my family to the black car. The ride was quiet and eerie. I silently looked out the window as crystalline tears slid down my cheeks.