Love in the times of Covid 3

She loved tradition. Even as a little girl. Making kulkuls on the lead up to Christmas. Midnight mass. Opening the presents when they got back. Of rosaries in the month of May at the grotto. The tradition of only Dad being allowed to ignite the rockets for Divali. Sparklers and snakes she was allowed to light. 

Making coconut leaf crosses for Palm Sunday. Polishing the brasswear with torn up old shirts. Of moulding marzipan Easter bunnies and settling them in crepe paper fields. Handpainting dried out eggshells. The Easter vigil and making sure the hot candle wax didn’t burn you while you renounced Lucifer and everything he stood for. 

She loved the solemnity of a funeral cortege. The slow march of mourners with a rosary that ended at the front at least five minutes before the tail enders caught up. The candles and crucifix lead procession to the grave. The ritual of the eldest covering the face of the deceased.The dispensation of rose petals. Their gentle showering down on the lowered coffin.

So many years. She’d seen it all. Many times over. Now she didn’t walk with the cortege. At  least the bus allowed her to get there before the seven day mass. She tried to get into the condolence line early. Too long a line and she might need a toilet before she reached  the family. 

A fever. A dry cough. A wheeze and she was gone.

No more than 20 persons at the funeral. Sorry. Police orders.

 Closed coffin. Health department orders. 

Grave ? Sorry all the labour have gone back to Bihar. 

Being the pragmatist she was she would have said “I’m lucky I could attend my own cremation”.