Five days after the janazah
The voices have left. The touch is forgotten. I sit with my legs folded. The aluminium sauce pan stares at me, hardened milk skins hang on its rim. I look for a strainer and then I don't. I fill my cup. I empty my grief. The pan sits gaping. I take a look. A teaspoon of milk is crouched at its centre. Shivering, surrounded by a silver nothingness. I don't want to interfere, and then I do. I add some water to the pan. Give it a swirl. The translucent solution dances with pride. I pour it into my cup. Nothing remains. I give the pan a last solemn look before I place it in the sink. Nothing lives in it anymore. I've emptied my grief.