And what do we say to the God of Death?

And what do we say to the god of death? We say thank you, Uncle, Father Time would have spent so many years lonely without you. Two titans of existence who do thankless and unenviable work. The little brother of the cosmos. He and my Mother -Earth, life itself – working together to balance every being I’ve ever loved and loathed.

I speak to him sometimes. His voice is Fate, his words prophecy past and prophecy yet written. My voice shattered glass liquified by passion and ignorance in my infant throat. Children like me want to hear nothing about “This is how it must be” when you take from us. To lose someone you love is to lose a fact of yourself. He says you haven’t lost them. He tells me that they’re stitched in my extracellular matrix. That they hold together and comprise everything I am.

I can’t see them, my eyes are bloody with grief. I say thank you Uncle. For Father loves you so. Then I go to my mother. Where she holds the dust remnants of my extracellular matrix. I plant the glass of my voice into her, hoping that dust, passion, and pain make life again.

My mother loves me too much to tell me that all I’m doing is bleeding her.