I am forced to come to grips with your absence, but your pains – that is another matter. Each time I remember, my wounds are freshly opened. Grief is indeed a slow burning fire. I tremble to remember, in those early days, when you scanned my face for what little strength I may have left that you may borrow some and mostly found none. I wished I had found the words that transport prayers to heaven for you my love, and wrestle sickness and death to submission. Even now Tiny, I hear your voice and the piercing sound of your silence on those extremely long nights. I remember the struggles of faith and how often you broke out into songs of praise in the throes of pain. I remember the quivering of your lips as you held your girls to your bedside in the hospital. Your feet were made to thread on petals but found the rough edges of a cliff and a bush of thorns instead. You had yet another stroke; you wept not because of the pains, but because you were being forced to leave your home, your girls, once again. I remember, the darkest of days before the angel came, when you looked at me and said to me: “Wale, is this it?” I miss you my sweet. Never the earth received a guest like you. I bless our gracious Lord, our Master and King who so mercifully welcomes His daughter home.