Cauldron

  LATE   The clock says 3:03 am.  The cruelty of grief is its timing. Tomorrow is my exam. My desk is littered with notes, but my mind is a sieve. I’ve studied, I’ve done the work, but I honestly don't think I can do it. I don’t want to give it. My mind is a complete blank, and my attention is everywhere except where it needs to be. I look at my admit card- that sterile, laminated piece of paper. All I can see is his name. I realized with a sickening jolt that soon, a four-letter word will precede it: Late. There is a specific, jagged kind of grief that doesn’t arrive with a scream, but with a silent, haunting repetition. To me, it comes in sleep. In the strange, fluid logic of dreams, he is there, always alive. Then I wake up.  Last night, I woke up and just couldn't stop crying. Tonight, I can't even get to sleep. It feels like I’ve been living through a cruel countdown. It started during the COVID pandemic with a neighbor. Then, it was Zaid. Then, my chacha. Every...