Short Story | The Death...
On the day we had known for a long time, grandfather woke up early, then showered and copied the best outfit, a long-sleeved white shirt with my derekku embroidery at the new end of yesterday he bought from the market. He was wearing material pants that are also white. Father bought the pants a month earlier in a shop in the county town at the request of his grandfather. Next, he sprayed fragrant perfume seeds all over his body, making our wooden house feel stuffy.
We - all of our grandchildren and children and daughter-in-law - who could not blink a bit the night before, besides a six-year-old cousin, sitting curled up on a plastic mat in the living room. We both lowered our faces, some of us could not resist the tears and lamentations. "Too fast, too fast, it's all too soon."
The wailing had been heard since a few days earlier, not even possible, since the day before we decided to gather at the father's house, grandfather's first child. But Grandpa disagreed with the words. "What's so fast? I've been waiting for this day for seventy-one years," Grandpa said. And it was greeted by a more pathetic lamentation. Such wailings seemed to repeat the lamentations of eleven years earlier. Only that time, the lament was addressed to the grandmother.
We took the place when grandfather finished getting ready and out of his room. A man with a flattened head because the baldness sparked a cigarette, then sucked the smoke deep, as if to perpetuate that mortal pleasure. He looks so strong. Her hands did not even look shaky.
"I miss your grandmother," she said, patting me on the shoulder. I was right next to him. Auntie, my father's second brother, howls of grandpa's words. Her husband immediately embraced her, trying to calm her, but my aunt who was out of control biting at my uncle's hand. My father moves fast with his hands clawing at both hands. Dad's power was not enough to deal with it and three other uncles immediately intervened. The aunt's body was shaken even though the big hands had held her. "Do not go, do not go!" roared aunt.
Grandpa saw it for a while. Then wander to the ceiling while blowing cigarette smoke strongly. "The one coming will leave.You know that already," he said, slowly but steadily. We also heard the sentence out of his grandfather's mouth when he took off his grandmother. But unlike now, grandfather used to say it in a quivering voice and watery eyes.
It was the seventy-seventh day of my grandmother lying in bed with a severe fever. Miraculously, grandmother rose from her bed, cleaned herself up, wore the best shirt as her grandfather did now, then began her journey. "This is the end," the grandfather continued, "this way he will recover from his illness."
Some neighbors are seen on the porch of the house. Front door deliberately left open since we gathered. And since then, the inexhaustible neighbors visit, cangkruk until the evening, and just come home after unbearable sleepiness. And there's always one or two of us who accompany the neighbors talking.
Meanwhile, the female members of the family busied themselves in the kitchen, making coffee and snacks between the pressure of holding back the sadness of this unassailable destiny. Berslop-slop cigarettes do not forget to be served. Not a small fee that must be prepared for it all. What a great preparation for grandfather's journey. But we have anticipated that since the day. We saved coffee and flour and cigarettes. Neighbors also did not come empty-handed. There are just what they bring as a souvenir.
The neighbors tell funny stories to us. And for the sake of modesty in entertaining guests, we always welcome the stories with a laugh. I'm sure the neighbors understand that our laughter is not a sincere laugh. However, for the sake of modesty and empathy, with the noble intent of comforting those who are sad, they continue to tell jokes. And like a never-ending cycle, we respond with a forced laugh again, the real laughter makes us even more miserable.
We do not mind that. We also always do the same thing when there are neighbors who are preparing for the trip of one of his family members. This is a doctrine that we have lived for a long time. Precisely, since our ancestors developed their transparent wings and darted into the sky high, then peered at a book and copied its contents before returning to earth. He did so so neatly after the preparation that the guardian angels had just learned that they had lost much of the day after.
We believe God Himself told the angels about the leak. They were so angry that they assigned three of the most powerful men to take our ancestors one night and trial them without defenders in the first-tiered sky. Our ancestors, who had no chance of dodging the sin that he had committed, could only surrender when the three angels cut their transparent wings using bamboo betel nuts. And that was the beginning so we could no longer fly.
But not the loss of the wings which is the most severe punishment of the angels, but the contents of a copy of a book made by our ancestors. The hard copy of the book, which he intended to make life calmer by anticipating what would happen, turned his children down with fear and anxiety.
And we believe, with the consideration that the contents of the copy of the book will lead to fear and anxiety, an unspeakable torment, the guardian angels decide to let it remain between us instead of taking and annihilating it to keep the future forever mysterious. Three generations after our ancestors made copies of the book, realizing the potential torment it contained, people burned the book in a fireworks ceremony.
But apparently, the inheritance punishment does not necessarily end. Just before the birth, the angel will whisper certain parts of the book in the left ear of the fetus which is the descendant of our ancestors. We believe that is the only reason why every fetus in our village weeps so hard, much harder than any other fetus.
Our ancestors, some time after losing their wings, built their way to the horizon. Initially, the road was narrow, just a path. But as the day progressed, the road grew wider and smoother. And can not help it, it's caused by the many legs that have passed it. There is no living witness who can say with certainty as to what the path is and what kind of landscape lies on the other end.
It is a one-way street. Only those who have arrived will take their time, and they, as we know, will not return. Our grandmother has been down that road. My father, in accordance with the whisper he received shortly before coming out of my grandmother's womb, would walk there seven and a half years from now, and I, whether lucky or not, would take another fifty-six years.
"It's time," Grandpa said. The clock on the wall shows at half past nine. More and more neighbors are gathered. Auntie had passed out from half an hour ago. And all family members are drowning in sobs. My body is so weak as if all my bones have been forcibly dilolosi.
Grandpa got up from where he was sitting. Took another cigarette, lit it, then started walking. Uncle, his father's third sister, trying to prevent grandfather by grabbing his grandfather's legs. It was a futile effort. Anyone knows that. The man who has arrived his time can not be stopped, even though he himself wants to stop. Like an extra power pulling him, giving him energy that no one can hold, like grandma once did.
In the yard, the neighbors orderly turn to greet the grandfather. They apologized for the mistakes they had made against the grandfather, whether intentional or not.
"Say hi to Amak, tell me I'm okay," said one of the neighbors. The message was followed by other similar messages from many other neighbors. Grandpa smiled and promised to deliver all the messages.
Grandpa walks. We followed him from behind. Before entering the path, he turned to us, smiled, then waved. We waved back. We keep waving. And he kept walking. He no longer turned his head. And a neighbor, who stands not far from me, in an effort to reduce our sadness, suddenly says a joke: in our village, everyone knows when he will die and walk alone to the world of death. I think the angel of death needs to cut his salary because he does not have to bother to pick up.
We tried to laugh....!!!!!
