Death: between Love and Myths
When COVID-19 came into our home, it came with me. I was coming back from work, carrying a heavy truth on my chest, so heavy, I could barely breathe. I had always told them to be careful, stay safe, because I didn’t want to get infected and have to take time off work. I loved my job so much. But I was selfish. That selfishness turned on me. I brought it home. I met my dad downstairs. We went up to the home together. I kept looking into his eyes, my throat tight, my heart screaming while my mouth stayed shut. I told him. He looked at me with that same soft gaze he always gave me, the one that said, “It’s okay.” He also said it with his voice. We told the rest of the family. He and my sisters decided to go to the hospital. He never came back. In the second week, I visited him. He was in the ICU, surrounded by machines, but his eyes were searching for me. His gaze was broken. He asked me to look after my sister, who was in her final year of school, and he was more worried about her ...