In Hindu households, when someone departs from this universe to be one with god, all the loved ones are asked to take a shower- head to toe.
It is part of the last rites.
You have to wash your hair, scrub your skin and wipe off all and any residue of the one who has left.
Their touch, their smell, maybe a strand of their hair caught in your bracelet
You are expected to wash it all off in order to completely let them go.

You walked out Tuesday night,
Claiming our love had reached its expiration date
And this relationship was dead.
Maybe I should take the ceremonial shower?
Wash you off,
Vacuum the house for all your long strands of hair,
Scrub off the marks of your lipstick on the bathroom mirror
Soak my yellow sweater because it smells like you
And wipe your kisses off my neck.
You said our love is over
But we woke up in the same bed that morning
You leaned in for a kiss and dragged me out of the bed
We brushed our teeth together
We walked to lunch together
And at coffee with our friends,
You refilled my cup every time before I could even reach for the teapot
We walked back home holding hands in your coat’s pocket
You bit my nose saying it was too red from the cold wind
We kissed in the elevator
Two hours later,
You say it is over?
It does not add up
This feels unreal
I sit infront of you, trying to make sense of the words coming out of your mouth
They sound French
Or maybe Dutch or Igbo?
The only words I could get and I remember are-
“I can’t love you right now.”
Oh, the painful tango of
You can’t love me and I can’t leave you!
But I must.
You have decided that for me-
Your wish is my command.
So tell me, my love,
Should I vacuum the house,
Wash your coffee mug,
Tear away the last page of my notebook that reads:
5 reasons why we should be together
Throw out your toothbrush
Return your ring
Tell me, quick
It has been 4 days,
My hair is greasy now
Tell me,
Should I wash you off?