No one teaches us how to mourn. We do not even expect we will. No one summons themselves to a sitting and learns how to mourn. And even as I write this, I am certain I have not mourned enough (to know the surest ways you must) myself. Because I haven’t lost people who demanded that of me; mourning enough. I sure have lost people. They are the people you cannot mourn for, in public. But I have still mourned. Many people and, also things.
When my stepbrother died, I laughed through the funeral. I didn’t even get to see him the last time. But I didn’t cry. Only when I was alone. Still now, sometimes when I am alone. I cry for him, for myself, for the love I held back, for the shame it was sometimes to be named his family; for not getting over this shame and for what I knew he needed from family that I was never able to give. Tears like this are shed alone because only you truly understand. And how do you even cry at a hurried funeral, at a mere performance without losing the essence of your pain? So I held back.
When the car hit the girl whose hand I was holding to cross the road somehow. I didn’t cry. I run for my mother. And I spent my days terrified to live. She was pulling me towards the morgue in one dream. I couldn’t sleep easy alone. I wouldn’t bath alone. I was young and old enough to know what it’ll mean for Maa. She was the second girl who wasn’t hers mum will lose to death. I knew they’d be rumors. Life changed. Then life went on. I didn’t shed a tear. Only my eyes well up when I remembered now. But I’ve always lived in quiet wonder of it all – how the car snatched her life from my hands. How God saw it.
When Grandma died, I was angry. She meant a lot to me. She meant I was hardworking and could have some pride from it. She meant I was still part of my father’s family. And she died. I remember thinking, saying finally my aunties, uncles and dad have what they want – a corpse to finalise the divide. All I remember is her body laying there, not happy. And my firm promise that I’ll build her a place, name it after her, move her corpse and give her happiness. And the food that was wasted because of pride.
I have lost more people. But I’m yet to lose the ones that’ll demand pain from me. I know it. When I think of their going, I feel the thread tearing our flesh apart from each other. The quiet memories I alone will laugh over. The emptiness I’d have to hand over again and again. And I’m planning to mourn well.
So here are three ways I’d mourn, three ways I suggest you mourn.
1. I won’t (don’t) mourn alone. Even in the little losses of life, I (you) know how mourning alone throws me (you) about. So, I’ll mourn (mourn) with God. We’ll (You’ll) find a way.
2. I won’t (don’t) mourn alone. Because I’ve (you’ve) become accustomed to a kind of private sorrow that locks people out and blames them for not breaking in to be in. I’d painfully (painfully) let people in. I’ll mourn (mourn) with friends. We’ll (You’ll) find a way.
3. I won’t (don’t) mourn alone. I’ll mourn (mourn) and wait for our (your) reunion. I’ll cry (cry) when I (you) feel like in the shower. I’ll cry (cry) when I (you) see something, someone, anything that opens up that space. But I’ll cry (cry) and remember we’ll (you’ll) meet again. When Jesus comes back. I’ll cry (cry) and then I’d (laugh) laugh.
And there are my three suggestions for when you mourn.
To all those mourning some loss, you aren’t alone. Also, let’s have a good weekend.
Xo, Awo.
©Awo Twumwaah 2018
Afua Awo Twumwa 