As I surveyed the dozens of empty tables spread across the void deck, it dawned on me how the last few days had seemingly passed like a blur. Friends and relatives must have come and gone, and yet somehow, I could scarcely remember any details of the funeral wake. I shrugged. Perhaps it was the sheer shock of it all - of losing someone who had come to mean so much to me. I turned my attention back to the coffin in front of me. Even in death, my grandmother was a picture of calm - her lips cheekily curving upwards ever so slightly, as if to say that she was exactly where she wanted to be. Clutched between her hands, was her favourite brown crucifix. Indeed, the strength of her faith had always amazed me. Every morning for years, she'd brave her chronic pain to hobble up to the makeshift altar in our house for her morning prayers. I had once asked her why she bothered. Touching my cheek tenderly, she replied "Faith can move mountains my dear. Don't you know?"

 

But what was perhaps the biggest test of her faith came quite recently, when I suddenly got sick and began to spend more time in the hospital than at home. She would insist on following my parents on visits - which initially annoyed me as I would have preferred for her to stay at home given her own myriad of health issues. During such visits, however, she always made it a point to stay by my side a little longer, even after my parents had left the room. With one hand in mine, and the other wrapped around her crucifix, she would close her eyes and whisper a prayer in her native language.

I never quite succeeded in piecing together what she was saying. However, as she uttered those strange words, a sense of warmth and peace would inevitably engulf me. Just for that moment, the pain of the poison being pumped through my veins would evaporate, and I would feel as though I was levitating above my body, looking down and observing our interaction. Just before leaving, she would kiss my forehead and declare with the utmost confidence: "You'll be okay", as if she knew something that the ensemble of specialists and medical professionals struggling to cure me did not. Needless to say, I came to look forward to her visits.

 

Now, as I gazed at my grandmother through the glass window of the coffin lid, I could feel my eyes begin to well up. During those moments of prayer, had she made some kind of deal with God? - asking Him to spare me from death and take her instead? If so, it had certainly worked.

My train of thought is abruptly interrupted by a small commotion in the void deck. I turn my head to see my dad searching the vicinity, looking slightly concerned. He looks to my mom. "Oh your mother?" my mom replies. "I saw her go up to the coffin just now".

 

In unison, they turn to look at where I am standing. I offer them a somewhat confused smile. They lock eyes with me and both their expressions instantly turn pale. My mom shrieks, staggers backwards, and collapses unto a chair, while my dad remains frozen with shock. Rattled by their reactions, I instinctively step towards them. Only now does the portrait of the deceased - which had been placed in front of the coffin - enter my peripheral vision. But something is not quite right. I slowly turn to face my grandmother's portrait, and my blood runs cold.

 

For it isn't, in fact, my grandmother's portrait at all.

 

It is mine.