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.