Jannat's story

Tonight we wrote on death and dying... The rest is what I wrote.

I don't want to tell your story. I don't.
I guard it close, jealously, like the passport I hang around my neck when I travel--always aware of its weight on my chest. I know it's there but no one else should.
But it all keeps coming up and pieces slip out... you keep trying to take credit for your role in my life and I keep trying not to let you...
I remember you story in images. In a class once we were told that adrenaline boosts memory-- thus we remember fight or flight moments more intensely.
I think it's true. I can almost reach out and feel the stitches on your left eyelid... they ran diagonal...
There was an OR. I was told to hold your hand. I think it was still warm, it was tiny inside mine. A bag was squeezed rhythmically and, in response, your small chest rose and fell. Mila was crying, I remember. I wasn't-- but I'm not an easy crier.
There was a woman in a sari. "Apa," she called me, a big smile on her face. Don't smile at me. "Apa, where's Jannat?"
"Jannat more giyecche."
When in my 3 months of language training did they have the foresight to teach me the verb "more jaowa", "to die", conjugated to third person, past tense: more giyecche.
There was a graveyard, close to midnight, nowhere near Halloween. An imam was roused. I still don't know the Arabic that sang you into the tiny hole where you lay, wrapped in white fabric, the diaper and the bandage taken off. And the funny little glasses too. I wonder where they ended up--I wish I had thought to take them with me.
It wasn't til a year and a half later that I learned your name means Paradise-- when I was making sure of the spelling before it became permanent on my ribs.
That was my 25th birthday. I cried for an hour that day, longer if you count the few tears that slipped out from the physical pain.
My roomate thought I was crying over a guy, but I think I was just letting go of all the tears I buried that night. I'm not like Mila, I'm not an easy crier.