The lockdown had taken its toll on our family, and it seemed like nothing would ever be the same again. As we returned from quarantine, my mother and I were plunged into a world without my father, who had lost his battle with cancer while we were away. My mother, usually composed and strong, was now a shell of her former self as she struggled to plan what she called a "celebration" for my father's life. But as soon as we stepped foot into our home and saw that picture of him smiling above the condolences book, all pretenses fell apart. My mother crumbled in front of me, her cries echoing through the empty house where my father's absence was painfully evident. And in that moment, I couldn't help but feel the weight of our loss and how much my parents' love for each other would never be the same again.

In life's procession, I've been to two,

Funerals solemn, tales both old and new.

At six, a haze, I, unaware,

In a poofy dress, a moment to bear.

A gathering vast, on grandparent's land,

A memory vague, like drifting sand.

A lady's grasp, a room of tears,

As a child, the weight, it seldom nears.

The years passed, the truth unveiled,

Grandfather gone, the tale regaled.

A church in chorus, grief's symphony,

A mother's wail, a painful memory.

Fourteen years hence, another scene,

Awareness sharp, the air serene.

To bury my father, a solemn quest,

Dressed in white, at life's behest.

No casket in sight, a preacher's voice,

Celebrating life, a collective choice.

Fifty-nine, he left our sphere,

In a box not seen, emotions clear.

Eldest daughter, a stoic role,

In a Nigerian home, a steadfast soul.

Not a tear shed on that fateful day,

A rock for others, emotions at bay.

Hopeful that he, in the beyond,

Feels pride, approval, in love we respond.

Alone in my room, when guests depart,

The facade crumbles, a broken heart.