WITH THE BLINDS OPEN

In the beginning, there was light.

Then, there was the sun.

In the three days in between, light, having no source, was everywhere.

It flowed like honey (but honey didn't exist yet)

And its strands braided together (but braids didn't exist yet)

To form bridges (but bridges didn't exist yet)

That I walked on (but I didn't exist yet).

On New Year's day

I sat alone on my living room couch

Clinging onto the glass of champagne like it was a crucifix.

When the seventh firework of the New Year erupted loud enough to shatter glass

I gripped it so hard that it burst, the pearly gold of champagne and my blood flowing and meandering

Between the shards of glass embedded in my hand.

In the three minutes in between the shattering of the glass and me calling 999

I stared at the crucifix on the wall

(My grandmother gave it to me one Christmas)

(I always thought it a strange gift for the occasion)

(To give a token of one's death on the day of his birthday)

(But Jesus died before he was born)

(Was born with intimate knowledge of his death)

There was the ambulance.

The nurses were all yawning

They told me not to drink so much alone

They told me New Year's was one of the busiest times for them

They told me they knew someone would come to them with glass shards in their hands.

My grandmother died three days later

(It did not come as a surprise)

(Thyroid cancer)

Three days after that, she was buried in a cemetery she chose for herself.

That January morning, the sun was not there.

Just the black, jagged branches of trees penetrating the pencil grey sky.

I wore the same pencil grey skirt I wore at the funeral to visit my sister that day.

(I didn't have time to change)

(The cemetery and the hospital were on opposite sides of the town)

(My sister knew before that she would not be able to make it to the funeral)

She was tired, after hours of labour, clutching her newborn to her chest like it was a crucifix.

"I'll name her after grandma," she said.

"I don't want to talk about grandma," I said.

My sister asked me to show her a photo of the cemetery.

(My grandmother and I spent the last few months looking at each cemetery in town)

(She decided on the last one we saw)

(I thought it was the ugliest and I said so)

(She said that might be so, but she was too tired to see any more)

And my sister looked at the black branches

Flowing and meandering in the sky

And said "those must look lovely in the spring.

Like a grove. Like a garden.

The honey gold of sunlight on the bough's very first leafs and buds".

It was January. Winter had just started.

I had plans to mourn spectacularly and broodingly.

I wanted to wander around a graveyard at night, wailing loud enough to scare away the ghosts.

(But people have cried in graveyards before)

I wanted to get a paper cut while reading the Revelation to John and stain its pages with blood.

(But the Bible has been stained by so much blood already)

I wanted to write the most profound of poetry.

(But all the poetry worth reading has been written already).

But I fell asleep in the hospital chair next to my sister and niece.