DEATH

12 June. Rehearsal day. My life began in rehearsal. Small stages. Wrong cues. Lines forgotten halfway through courage.

And always, somewhere in the dark, my mother watching as if the ending had already been forgiven.

She corrected my posture before the world could. Moved me a step away from falling. Told me where to stand. When to speak. When silence was the wiser costume.

Every beginning I survived was first survived by her.

Years of rehearsal. Years of her quiet voice rearranging the furniture of my fear.

Then— 12 July. Performance day. The lights are set. The audience is patient. The world waiting for me to become whatever comes next.

I keep looking towards the front seats. There is one with her name on it. Empty.

She is not here. She has not been since last night. Since the hour the room discovered how heavy a still body is. How loud silence can grow. How owned a tear can be. How often a sigh can travel.

People say the show must go on. They do not know I have never performed alone. A cloud of witnesses. A phony.

I step forward anyway, carrying a script written in a voice that is no longer speaking.

Mothers should be immortal: The Play. This is not a performance. I am now on stage. Rehearsals are over. And I do not know where to look. I may have forgotten my cue. The spotlight is on me. But who am I performing for.