Death Visited Me Poem by Charlina Daitouah Smith

She passed away.
The herald of merciless pain. What wouldn’t I have
given to hear she came this way
or she is here to stay?

But no! They said, yes, they said... she passed away.
I am sure, because my heart gapes wide,
a chasm earth cannot fill.
I am certain, because our girls weep for
her. Inconsolably. Our pivot is gone.
She does not return, though her work is not yet done.
The children have needs I never knew existed.
How did she do it? I’ve tried, but I can’t fit in her
shoes.
They’ve grown since she left.

I know that she has passed on; everywhere
I go people murmur never mind yah*.
Why shouldn’t I mind? I boldly challenged
last night. I return every day to a bereaved
house, a companionless bed. They all go home
to happiness. They looked at me speechless,
shocked. I do not care.

Grief smothers me. The sympathizers’ chatter
a welcome blast of fresh air, temporary reprieve.
My relatives whispered mouth to ear,
She did not make it.
I waste away.
They still whisper – now... He too might pass away.
I’m so far gone, they think, that I don’t notice.

I turn to tell her that the car broke down again
this morning. The mechanic had lied as usual. I
was late for work. I turn, but she’s not there.
She passed away.
They say she is in a better place. What place
can be better than here with me, here where our love is?
Her absence sits heavily. Tears bring no relief,
they flow painfully from the deep well that
my heart has become. Kemah passed on.
The answer I give to friends who ask of her. I
break precious scabs and blood flows afresh out
of my hurting wounds.

She passed away.
Not mere news to pass on. They were talking about me,
about my Kemah. Death has no compassion.
I hate him.
Maybe they are right. I may go to Kemah soon.
At night, I hear her soft voice, her pretty silhouette
drifts across our lonely bed. I reach out to touch her
but she’s gone... my love, my woman.

*yah - Liberian slang for “ok”.