Time ran out. Clocks stopped. And here we are, those who loved her, bereft and not quite knowing what to do with ourselves. Her body, dressed and washed by her husband, awaits the day when we farewell her and commit her to the fire. And we who are left are shellshocked, left breathless, by the last seven weeks of being consumed, by her, with love for her. The chasm is large, unthinkable, unbearable, but somehow we are thinking of it, bearing it, feeling it’s hugeness, being with each other without her. She was the sun around which we orbited, the moon that determined our tides. We have lost our reference point – we promise that we won’t disappear out of each other’s lives, but she was who we looked to, to hold us altogether. And yet, we cannot fall apart. Neither for her sake, nor for ours. We had one anchor, and unanchored now, we have to throw out all the draglines in desperate attempts to stay where we are. Or perhaps we will drift together, we flotsam and jetsam, we weary stragglers. At the moment, though, we are becalmed. 

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