When Papa died, the air became sterile, thick with grief, so much that speaking became a chore, a labored affair. We'd sit some mornings, staring wordlessly at one another in the living room. "A great soul has died." The Priest said during the funeral, eyes fixated on the coffin. Those words were a trigger, a trigger and a reminder. 

My memory sharpened, and Mama's wailing voice recoiled into silence. Our reality was tied to him, but we watched it take flight. A million words unspoken, promises left broken. “Be strong, Adiaha." He had mumbled warmly as his hand slipped gently from mine onto the bed. A sudden silence. Only the beeping of the monitor and a spiteful stare from the straight line. 

Mama’s eyes wandered towards me, pleadingly, until they tugged violently at my lips. “He’s only asleep,” I muttered dryly, lips trembling, a lie we wanted to be true. Desperate for hope and fate to reconsider; Like teardrops, our shoulders drooped as we watched the nurse masquerade him in white sheets. A dramatic display. 

After Papa died, it was quiet. But his love lingered like a noisy engine unhinged. He would want us to smile, to be happy and bright. To take deep breaths in the fresh air and let it’s peace bloom. So, as though he was there to chastise our reluctance, we soothe grief with laughter, chasing the silence away. 

The pain wanted him, and it took him, away from our sight and into our hearts- a better place, surely. We’ll remember the calming sound of his voice, the echoes of his laughter. "Adiaha, you’re Beautiful!” he’d tell me, gleaming proudly. And to Mama, "You are Diamond,” an anthem. Now he dwells within the cadence of our breath, giving us strength, hope, and purpose every passing day.