Something about loss does not strike us immediately. As the knowledge of it fills the mind, a thin line forms, a crack, and then leakage.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Lethal; right to the heart!
The heart begins to fill up. Memories. Pictures. Sounds. Smells. Songs. Places. Black spots. Black. So black that we struggle & fight to recover and see the images beneath. What happened here? Who was there? What did he say? Where? What were we wearing? Which year?
And just like that, on the third night, our hearts become full of it; the realization of loss; the recollection of everything that has happened and that did not happen yet. The weight of memories befalls our chests, and we grow afraid of closing our eyes and loosing it all to the night.
"His carefully chosen perfume.
The close shave.
The GMC he loved to ride because it can take up the entire family and whoever wanted to come along.
The “half moon” beach, and the rubber boat. My cousin and I riding. Him
pulling the rope. “The sharks!” he shouts. We falling for it every
Him shouting, “Hold tight to your breasts so they don’t fall
out the windows!” as he swerves on and about the sand dunes with five women
blushing from embarrassment and screaming with excitement.
Hands as huge as my face, heavy as that of an armor, patting my shoulder. Me sucking up the pain every time and playfuly mentioning how strong he is.
How the “okal” falls off his head no matter how tall on the toes I stand while I kiss him. How he makes me believe he is angry, every freaking time!
How his large feet cross when he’s sitting on a chair.
How huge he is, yet small, soft, and “didn’t mean it” is the child in his
And as the third night grows weak, and the light falls strong. As dust awakens, and clarity fades away. The question stands:
What is not selfish about mourning? And as we grip onto the memory of those who have left us, are we not mainly holding onto ourselves?