What Is Grief?

Grief. What is it really? Is it the deep pain in my chest when I wake up every morning knowing I can’t call you to ask how you slept? Is it the lump in my throat at lunchtime when I realize I can’t hear your voice telling me about your day? Is it the tears that choke me when I pass by the shop where we bought shortcakes, your favorite yet now, I can’t bring myself to look in that direction?

Today, I happened to hold your black handbag. I thought maybe it would console me! That having something of yours in my hands would remind me I don’t just have you in my heart but I could still touch and feel something that belonged to you. But instead, I found myself breaking down again. I cried on a boda boda today, just like I did in the bathroom earlier. This time, my daughter didn’t notice. Maybe I have learned how to hide it.

Mornings remind me of the time and day you left us. They take me back to the moment I was humbled, watching you transition from this life. No doubt you are in a better place, but it still hurts that I don’t have you here with me. Even when I am happy truly happy, I remember that you aren’t here to share it with me. They say you see everything in heaven, that you are at peace, that you are happy. But if that’s true, why does realizing I have to live with this pain make it hurt even more?
Losing a Mum, has been like losing a part of myself. I knew death was inevitable but I never knew the weight of grief until I realized I would never hear your voice again. Never feel your embrace. Never have those endless, playful, the jokes and heartfelt conversations that filled my days with warmth.

I have avoided going back home. I don’t know what I will feel when I walk in and don’t find you there. All I want is to find you sitting in your favorite spot in the sitting room or lying in the bedroom, waiting for me to shout, Surprise! And you, with that playful smile, would say, Surprise! right back. That’s what I picture in my head, but I know it won’t be like that. Maybe I’m in denial. Maybe I am afraid of the emptiness that will greet me instead of your warm presence. But I know I must come to terms with it. I have to face it head-on, no matter how much it hurts.

Through it all, my siblings and I have been each other’s support system. We have cried together, counseled one another, and held space for the endless questions, the lamenting, the search for reason and understanding. Some days, we convince ourselves that you wanted it this way. Other times, we say, God wanted it for you. And then there are moments when we simply leave it to the universe because no explanation seems enough.

I see you in everything. The chair in the shop where you used to sit, the mat where you used to rest, and even your lesu that I carry it over and over, hoping that somehow I will see you and give it to you. Last week, I walked into the shop where we used to buy your clothes and I couldn’t stop myself. I stood there wondering what you would pick, what color would make your eyes light up.
The nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, my mind replays the hospital days. How I stayed awake just to hear you breathe, just to make sure you knew I was there when you opened your eyes. And those last words you told me they are engraved in my heart. I hold onto them because I know they will come to pass.

But still, the pain is raw. The tears feel fresh, like a wound that refuses to heal. Every day gets harder, not easier. People say time heals, but how do you heal from losing a piece of your soul?
Yet, somehow I whisper, It is well. Maybe because I know you wouldn’t want me drowning in sorrow. Maybe because I hold onto the hope that where you are, there is no more pain and no more suffering.
You are resting and at peace.

The choice of this picture as the feature image symbolizes the fruits you left in us. The tree you planted is yielding, a testament to the great person you were. You planted different seeds in each of us and as they grow and bear fruit, they will continue to shout your praises.

Here, your baby girl is still trying to cope. I am learning, painfully understanding, what grief really is.

Rest well, Mum. I love you.

TUHAME ❤️