(Today’s prompt is to write an index poem.)

Heat. Humidity. The smell of tuberose and lilies. Of course roses. In many colours, more roses than ever given while she was alive. Family, friends. Talking. The dead have to be given a send-off. The priest mutters, he is late. The room is full of things to be given, things she loved. Cheese. Chocolates. Olives. The smell of incense. There is nobody here. No one waits in the next room. No one to visit. While the prayers are muttered she is wondering how much longer it will take. How soon can she leave, never to return. Things yet to be done. Things to be given. For there is no way to give her anything anymore. What can she give. Except for this sendoff that feels fake, hollow. In her mind voices speak together. Soon it will be over. She can finally mourn. The dead have their own send-off. It will be given at her own time, her own pace. The flowers are wilting. What, then, is the aggregate value of the rituals? Go in peace, then.