An Open Letter to the Dead ~ Maura Cassiana Desouza

Maura, there were yellow flowers everywhere. There were all types of them too. I could not name them. I wish I knew all the names of the flowers. And all the names of the trees. And all the names of the constellations. And all the words the Eskimos use for snow.

But then there is the story I heard recently of a famous monk who sat in a garden with another monk. They sat in silence for what seemed liked forever and finally one laughed and said, “They call that a tree.” Then they both laughed.

Yellow reminds me of you. And flowers remind me of you. But these are just words. Concepts to help us fill the void of some existential emptiness that makes us feel as if we’re losing ourself if we don’t have the labels.

A yellow flower at the Dervish Center

I don’t need to see a “flower” or “yellow” to see you. I can feel you in everything if I call it to mind.  The memory of you lives on in everyone who calls you to mind.

It has been three years since your last metamorphosis. I wonder what names they call you now. I am sure they are all beautiful.

MAURA CASSIANA DESOUZA

June 23 1986 to May 19 2009

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