44

Kamuna settles down in the cemetery behind my cottage, Layala and Sayil on either side.

“It is my time,” she says. “I have no grief, no mourning,” she insists, more to herself. She takes the girls’ hands, then turns to me.

I lean in to Layala and hug her tight. Then I reach for Sayil, who gives my hand a warm squeeze.

“I will die, but you must not tell my story, Hakawati,” Kamuna says. “Preserve my soul seed, so I can remain tethered to death, to the Waiting Place.”

I bow my head, but then nod in agreement.

Kamuna stretches out over the soil and leans her head back. She sinks into the earth, and I watch her body relax.

“Come, rest your heads beside me,” she tells the girls.

I’m crying, but I try not to sob as I watch both Layala and Sayil lie down on either side of Death, resisting the urge to yank my daughter out of Kamuna’s grasp.

My baby, my Layala. My whole heart and soul.

Kamuna’s breathing tapers, and I witness the moment her chest no longer rises.

I choke back a sob as Layala’s and Sayil’s bodies grow still.

Keep her safe.

Keep her happy.

Let her find good love.

Let her know peace.

Let her know her heart and mind.

Let her be.

I lean toward Kamuna’s body and there, lying in the soil, is a pomegranate seed.

Layala’s and Sayil’s aren’t here, though. Theirs have gone to become part of death itself, like Kamuna’s once was.

Keep them safe.

Keep them happy.

Let them find good love.

Let them know peace.

Let them know their hearts and minds.

Let them be.

I pocket Kamuna’s soul seed, and with the shovel from the shed behind my home, I start digging three graves.