Right this minute I ask myself, Sheema how far do you need to drown in your grief before you know your hair is floating around your face. Your eyes, ears and mouth open to the cleansing water hoping for your heart to accept the absence, mother's death. Now did you hit the bottom Sheema to start over? To push your feet, pulling your body to the top, hands swimming towards the light, your hair traveling back and forth as you move to the surface? And the mermaids clapping for you to succeed? No! I haven't hit the bottom yet. I sit here with fingers that up until a few minutes ago were rounding ground meat for supper, placing the golden-party-crown on top of the little girl's head, helping P to find something for the garden, awaiting the gusts to arrive tonight. No I haven't hit the bottom yet.
I am black and blue with mother's memory but fake a smile as if her body is still living fresh. I wish mother... it was me pushing my luggage through the gates and you, my beloved woman...were floating outside the airport window... with your eyes looking at me... awaiting me to arrive...

Right this minute I want to be in that graveyard in Copenhagen, lay on top of your grave, lay as if forever, mother.