If that smell is accurate, from turning her over and lifting her up, then I don’t want to know about it. Blood on the sheets and on her clothes, after prayers were said and placed onto fibreglass as gently as could be managed, I didn’t gag in the house but later. My throat burping into my mouth, the distance travelled, I haven’t been sick in so many years gone that I can’t remember the last time. What I recall are instances where my body would communicate itself to me with weakness from toes to ears and I would just list and loll. Vividly, as I happen to recollect, I only reached the kitchen as it was, before the remodelling, and heaved onto the ground. There was a relief then I wish I felt now.
In the mirror I recognise I look my best at this time of the day, after gravity and all of the daylight hours have tolled. There is definition to my face, as if from a life lived, a preparation for sleep and shut eyes. The darkness. It is this time of the day, before midnight, I can see myself in ten years or twenty with experiences on my back and DIY notches in my belt. It is a single light source stressing those seeded bends and cracks that become my story and history. Under my arm and hers around my waist, there would be a change in the atmosphere and silk of analysis, a rerouting of impulses, and my future changes like it doesn’t even happen but for decomposition on the spot, as natural as yours.