Lilacs, my mother’s favorite flower, clumps of which she’d cut from her prized bushes during the short spring flowering season and put in vases ar...und the house to share their sweet scent with us, a practice she’d continued until her own death seven years and three months before mine. Her death had proven more permanent than my own brief flirtation with the Reaper, cancer claiming her at sixty-eight. Odd, that I’d smelled her lilacs while I was dead.Other than nothing – and lilacs – the next. Her waist was amazing, as if some sculpture took ages to get those angles. The belly was neither flat nor full. It just had enough flesh to make my eyes pop out in awe. She did not let me enjoy fully her frontal beauty, as she slowly turned around while dropping her sari gradually. Now I can see her back. As if she knew my desire, she took her hair and folded it up, so that I could see her nakedness above and below her blouse. I could make out clearly the shape of her buttocks under her. More

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