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The Pumpkin by DS Maolalai


she is in bed.  her breath  comes shallowly,  with sounds of a stuck zipper  opened. my family  uncomfortable. my brother bringing tea.  her mouth slack. death arrived slowly like a man collecting bins. her face not a face – just a place for holes to go through. the room is warm. things blink. oxygen and medical machines. she looks nothing  like anyone's grandmother. eyes  closed, cheeks aged inward –  a pumpkin  on the doorstep of an empty house, rotten on the second week  of november.

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