Clutching my mother’s damp shawl
at her childhood friend’s funeral
I hear a lady say
death smells different across the globe
right now it reeks
of burnt butter
brown sugar
sticky toffee date pudding
wet ground
after the traffic has cleared
and everyone is long asleep
the berries overripe from below
almonds and raisins
in a child’s jacket
long forgotten
and often the sky pays respect
to the crippled body
throws a golden ray
over crestfallen eyes
before turning metallic
and the lady says
she was once at a village
seven thousand kilometers away
where death smells of capsicums
and baby tomatoes
of farms where people wake up
to the clattering of horse feet
where everything you breathe for
can be counted on your fingers
where the sky is unbothered
neon blue and coral green
where grief lasts exactly a day
where wounds are tended to
with warm garlic rice
and baskets of persimmons
now my mother whispers
life after loss smells different
like rusty old bangles
that do not fit anymore
like serving too many cookies
and tiny tarts with evening tea
knowing the conversations
will never last that long
or saving half an apple for lunch
only to realize
how quick it goes bad
like wanting to long for someone
so deep once more
but never encountering
the same eyes twice.