Citrus Sores
Photo by Elena Baidak on Unsplash By Etinosanobua Egharevba Can anyone truly describe the sound of the heart breaking? It is similar to the clunks of little rocks that hit the drape coffin of your father, swallowed by the wails of your mother flinging her worn-out Ankara, clutched by women with meaty arms and bristled voices. The sweltering heat from the sun overhead burned the men who threw the sand into his grave. I avoided my mother’s gaze because I knew she knew. They all did. Everyone remembers what I did, but no one knows why I did it. “He has gone to be with the lord,” the priest clamped my shoulder, nodded, and brushed by me. Maybe I should have asked him what he meant by that, why the Lord took my father so early. Maybe I should have asked him why the lord had let me kill him. ONE MONTH EARLIER The room was laced with the acrid scent of citrus that stung my eyes as I moved toward him. He lay on the bed like he had been doing for two years: his eyes scanning each movement like ...