The matches spilled by the front door, the morning he promised to leave his wife for my grandmother.
She saw a thin cover of blue light ascending, and tried hard to remember to simply move her pinky finger.
I swallowed my tongue and choked. Lost my breath and opened my eyes only when I heard my name to understand I have died a little.
The 30th day is when the soul leaves. She moved her hand toward me and I stayed still, as she disappeared from the bar.
When my tongue touched the palate the word crow collapsed. Welcomed with applause and joy, as she finally spoke.
There were a lot of us, but she approached me. Took of her necklace put it on my chest and said that I need it more.
She dreamt of my grandad, he was young and strong – waving at her by the highway. I used to always imagine her memories in black and white, rarely in sepia.
Coming back from the sea side, my auntie and uncle got into a car crash. The truck and watermelons were squashed and they were without a scar.
I dreamt of his death, mistaking it for my own.
He would slaughter the sheep but first cut their tongues off. Later on they all will be born without voices.