Dirge for a Passing

(for Professor Peter Ozo-Eson)

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

        SOMEONE has stepped out of the room
        without closing the door.
        The chair keeps its shape,
        the air keeps its warmth,
        as if the body only went
        to answer a question down the hall.

        The world is lighter by one soul,
        heavier with memory.

        We say this softly,
        as we set down our hammer & sickle,
        as we look at our hands
        to be sure they are still here.

        Nothing dramatic happens.
        The clock continues
        its small, faithful work.
        A bird repeats itself
        outside the window,
        unaware that it is now
        singing to fewer ears.

        The body rests,
        the story moves elsewhere,

            into the mouths of children,
            into the cracks of old walls,
            into the night songs women hum
            when grief is too heavy for speech.

        We remember how the voice
        entered a room
        before the tam did,
        how laughter swirled forward,
        how ordinary sentences
        once carried weather within.

        The world is lighter by one soul,
        heavier with memory.

        This is how we measure dryness;
        not by its surrender to the sun,
        but by the dry-mouthedness it returns.

        At dusk,
        someone turns on a light
        out of habit,
        then leaves it on,
        for no one in particular.
        The night accepts this gesture
        without comment.

        The body rests,
        the story moves elsewhere.

        And we remain,
        holding both truths carefully,
        like a bowl filled to the rim,
        walking slowly,
        so nothing sacred spills.

        Passing does not end the song,
        it only changes the drummer.