The 88th death.
[Text and photo by Gayatri Jayaraman]
She objectified men, because there is more than one way to close the gender divide.
When she laughed, she cried such that it was confusing to know, at any point, whether her tears of joy or sorrow. Often, they were both.
She never had a zit, even once. But she had moved 50 houses and never called any one of them home.
This is how life ought to be she thought, once, standing at the origin of the Bear Shola waterfall in Kodai, not noticing the white-hoofed bison behind her.
Everything was ok but a lie and staying static.
She liked waking up to windows that looked out on strange seas.
She wrote bad poetry and sang out of tune. It didn’t bother her to be unpublished as much as it did to be unmusical and so she used her unfinished sentences to keep searching for the unsung note within her.
She bought her friends toys and crayons so they could play again.
She secretly added mean, sharp numbers – like 7 and 3 – so they couldn’t damage nice rounded ones like 8 and 6.
She was last spotted deliquescing into a strand of sunlight in a thicket in the hills.
Our Self-Written Obituaries invites people to write their obituary in 200 words. The idea is to share with the world how you will like to be remembered after you are gone. (May you live a long life, of course!) Please mail me your self-obit at email@example.com.