of yellow papers that curl in the fire,

white smoke, from the tip of the stick, sneak around.

we are wearing white and black,

colors on arm to tell who we are.

everyone is here.

no one is crying.

it's a family gathering,

uncles and aunties, from different parts on this land,

some I couldn't remember,

but it doesn't really matter, because

everyone is here, no one is crying.

He's sleeping in the coffin,

peacefully.

A man in his Mercedes, the shinny hair smell like his hair gel,

He comes to a bahkutteh stall with three young children.

They are picking lottery from an indian man, scratching the paper with coin.

He paid to the indian man, then watching his grandchildren, smiling.

The fact of I will not be seeing him when I come back here next time is hard to bear,

thinking of the contact entitled Grandpa will never appear on the screen when my phone rings strikes me hard.

He'd gone.

I had been battling with this feeling, to reminisce the moment spent with him and accept the truth of I will never have him coming back at the same time is too overwhelming.

So long.

Rest In Peace.