Good Grief

Though I am oceans apart from family and those I’ve loved longest, due to the pandemic, I have been afforded the opportunity to attend gatherings for births, adulthood rites, and death…online.

Last month I celebrated my birthday. Less than ten days later, I lost the last living grandparent I had. As far as I know, there will be no memorial, no service to attend. Denied (not by malice) communal remembrance, I understand acutely for the first time the importance of gathering to celebrate a life that is no more. Be it in physical proximity close enough to embrace or digital attendance transmitted on a screen across time zones through space, no matter how great or few in number, when a loved one dies, it is crucial to gather if possible, to say their name aloud, to share a word, a story, to show up. This is how we offer and receive comfort. This is how we grieve. 

Though I am oceans apart from family and those I’ve loved longest, due to the pandemic, I have been afforded the opportunity to attend gatherings for births, adulthood rites, and death…online. Through my computer screen I’ve witnessed a newborn’s first naming ceremony. I have listened with a heart swelling with happiness to the recitation of prayers at a bat mitzvah. For a single glorious afternoon I was one of a multigenerational collective of women who shared stories, wisdom and advice at a first menarche party. And just once, I attended a memorial, more joyful than sad, of a many years now departed friend, still gone too soon. I will never not miss you Prashant. I have of course, attended a multitude of events for loved ones, family and acquaintances in person. At these times, I have offered amen, asé, mazel tov, thank you, my silence, my presence, or whatever was asked or required of me. These endings and beginnings are all opportunities for love, connection, tears and celebration and I welcome them.

Thus far the preparations necessary to bury, memorialize and eulogize the dead have fallen to others. And if I am honest, should the day never come to pass that such a task is mine to complete, I’d not be unhappy. I worry there is cowardice on my part, or more accurately fear; the fear of pain, and the fear of a finality I am not yet ready to contend with. If and when such a time comes to pass, I hope the courage to honor and celebrate the dead will be mine.

I have offered amen, asé, mazel tov, thank you, my silence, my presence, or whatever was asked or required of me.

One of the things that simultaneously spurs me on and gives me pause as a writer is the fear that someone else will tell my story (and get it wrong) if I don't put it in writing first. A human life is an ephemeral thing; too complex and vast to be wholly documented. I know this well. That said, please allow me to share a little about my grandmother. 

Though her parents hailed from Jamaica, my paternal grandmother was born and raised in Brooklyn. She was a Brooklyn girl, just like me and her beauty was striking. Both she, and my maternal grandmother, made me unafraid of aging for each retained her beauty and looked significantly younger than she was all the days of their lives. My paternal grandmother was outspoken, more often poised than not, and was always well-dressed. She was, in my experience, no soft, doting, maternal presence. Outwardly she projected independence and a low threshold for foolishness. She valued books, fashion and art. She talked politics and shared her opinions freely. She seemed to me both world-wise and world-weary.

It was my grandmother who took me to my first Japanese restaurant when I was a child and impatiently taught me how to order. She was intelligent, with a keen interest in mathematics and sciences and earned her undergraduate degree from Brooklyn College. She bought me a copy of Our Bodies, Our Selves when I was a burgeoning tween and later gifted me a subscription to Ms. magazine when I was a young woman. She encouraged me to get a housekeeper and nanny (though I could afford neither and was uncomfortable with the idea at the time) when I first became a mother so I wouldn’t lose myself - as she put it. She had her share of heartbreak, disappointment, pain and sorrow but those stories are not mine to share. Her name was Constance and I know she loved me and I loved her in return. 

Constance Carter née Melbourne. Date unknown.

Sometimes no effort is required to remember those we have lost. The memory of a shared moment or conversation will come unbidden and unexpectedly. Other times, if we are lucky enough to have them, we rely on photographs, listen to recordings or watch moving images to remember them as they were. Sometimes we name our children in tribute to loved ones gone in hopes of prolonging the time before they are forgotten. 

To grieve good, gather together. If it is but you alone, and if you are so inclined, write down what you know or say it aloud even if there is no one else to hear it. Tell that story that made you smile, the one that made you laugh, the one that made you cry. 

Most importantly, say their names.

Of the many friends and loved ones gone but not forgotten, I am thinking of the four women who were grandmothers to me. Pearl and Constance and Onnie and Elaine. 

I am thinking of Miller, Patrick, Wilbert, Zaid, Kalief and Grace.

I am thinking of Lorna, Kerri-Ann, Whitney, and Prashant. I am thinking of Atiba and Shaka and Ishak and Tara. Too many to name really. Take care of your self and take care of one another.

That’s all for now. See you in two weeks.

In Case You Missed It:

Newsletter No. 21 was a short observation about the inability to see that which is right before your eyes.

Seeing Without Looking

Reminders:

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TELL ME:

Is there someone whose name you’d like to share?