Excerpt: In The Dark Valley

He dies. Words found from another memory. I remember when Mot and I read aloud Shakespeare’s ‘King Lear’ together. The end of act five with Mot reading for King Lear.
”And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her! look! her lips!
Look there, look there! “
Mot had fallen silent and lay down; without the drama or overacting too frequently.
I remember whispering the sombre words “He dies.”

He dies. I never expected that. Not when reading the play and not now. Mot was my grandfather of sorts, my companion, my unwanted, strange type of teacher and mentor, my solemn travel partner, and my friend.
I am less sad that Mot has died (I hope he rests in peace) than that fact I will miss him in my life. I selfishly want him here. He will be with his darling Dara again. For that I am thankful. However I admit jealousy of her.
This man who at different times, I idolized, hated, misunderstood, rejected, treasured, disrespected, held in high esteem and dearly loved. The world seems less bright today and like there is something missing from each small piece.
What ceremony, custom or funeral do I give him? I wish I could give him them all. Yet I know he wants none of that. Mot wanted to have his ashes scattered over Nana Dara’s grave. He did want to go peacefully into that goodnight, without fanfare or lengthy words of mourning. He had such an unusual relationship with Death.
Mot was the most adaptable and kind person I have ever known. He was often too serious and studious. To say anything unkind was not his way. He was polite to everyone; cruel to none. Only in his lack of words could I tell who this man disliked. Maybe he was not someone I could play with, or joke with. Yet we talked about everything based on fact, or seen in the real world. Only within the topic Death was he willing to be more progressive and delve into the imaginary and fictional. Mot frequently said, “A lot hidden within the pages of myth and fantasy is based on some type of truth.”
Who I am is little to do with my family. I don’t even think I look that much like them any more. What am I do without Mot? Am I willing to head into the Underworld and bring Mot back as Hercules and Orpheus?
I wish I could say I saw Death when Mot died. I did not. I closed my eyes to cry, and saw not even a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. I just desired to be alone with Mot as his spirit left his body.