The other day Oma was peeing blood Crimson rivulets streaming Down the cement into the latrine I knew because she showed me She said, Mama, mama and she was quiet What is the essence of dying? Who gets to live off our suffering? Do not make room for an unwanted guest Lest he become an intruder Don’t let him stay the night Or he brings others- sickness, Pain, and Death And your house collapses And everything you have is gone Hunger is an angry thing It devours everything in its path My Oma left today I held her cold body to my thin chest Caressed the tufts of yellow hair on her swollen head I laid her near her brothers I twist the rope in my hands Obiageli! – a familiar voice I turn to the empty house- no one I walk ahead, lifting my eyes to see At last, a tall tree A relief
"Writing is its own reward" - Henry Miller