: Oma Leni Tanukusumah, and all the women elders and for Tethyst
As old as women, Gran. You are the oldest. The most ancient even. And you are the only grandmother that I had. And between all love and hate, on top of the remaining Tethyst Sea of most ancient, I prayed for you. Exactly at the Annapurna gate, that also reminds me of the abundance of all the taste of the food you ever cook for as long as you lived. Only for one reason: love. Your philosophy is simple. Food is love and your heart is the ongoing kitchen. Only that love that you know. The very only one.
And at 89 everything ends, with the bitterness of a broken heart. Also of a broken leg.
Ah, Gran, I hope everything ends anew and all that bitter can turn into goodness in your next cycle of life.
A red spot carry you to the gates of heaven, marking that your spirit going back to the sky. I threw dried fruits all over, to you, to Grandpa, to my father and mother. Among the snow in my face that day, to my eldest grandmother that I prostrated. To all four direction. In the central that I stand. Between Tethyst and Cimmeria.
Himalaya is a mountain range that always grow from time to time. Himalaya is one of the remaining oldest sea. Ancient sea between Gondwana and Laurasia. What happens if the highest mountain like Everest aka Sagarmatha aka Chomolungma has never been sure about their fix height. All the mountain summiters know very precisely that often the top of the summit is an illusion, because sometimes it seems to grow relentlessly. But in this century for now we agreed about a certain height. Just for now.
Then Gran, in every sea I would see you every time. In the side of the Indian Ocean. Either in the southern side of Java or the Western side of Australia. Not to mention the Northern part of Java Sea. Ah, and beside Mars, water take over my birth line. And to the Grandmother that I go. The Ancient mother.
In Sanur, I drown my head, floating in the lightness of the waves and found your embrace. The sun rises when I ran among the sand. And through the water, everything washed out. Through the water, our sadness was taken, also badluck and bitterness. Oh, through the South where all our prayers went. All river and water that comes down through the Himalayan glaciers. Grandmother, through you, Gran. We begin, we go and we end.