Fast typing - "Goddess of Death"

When my grandfather was on his deathbed, he didn’t move toward the light.

At his feet, there were four jamdoots, two on each side of the bedpost, waiting to take him home.

His children waiting in line with spoonfuls of water, one drop for every grandchild who would outlive him.

My father was the last to water his dry mouth, hold his bony fingers.

We knew it was coming.

Grandfather had been sick for years, bedsores erupting every few days, muscles refusing to mobilize, food undigested, his bedroom a mausoleum of pills.

The room dark and foggy, his clan silent in prayer, waiting for the goddess of death to descend.

Stomachs bloating with the angst of suffocating between two worlds.

The jamdoots carpeting for her arrival.

Sons terrified of her wrath, her sprawling tongue when enraged, her skin the color of a new moon night, unruly hair, bloodshot eyes.

Unforgiving mother lest one surrenders.

When he finally caught a glimpse of her, he levitated.

He wasn’t scared.

Death came at dawn.

How gently she carried him.