The day that my mum died I didn’t cry much. My dad told me and my brother that she had fallen asleep, and I asked what he meant. After two years of a worsening illness and euphemisms that I refused to fully understand, I wanted to be sure of what happened; was she in a coma, or was it finally over?
For the whole year after she died, I didn’t cry much. I spared a tear or two at the funeral, but that’s because my dad made it heartbreaking (he wanted The Book of Love to play in the background as the coffin exited the church) and because the guy I thought was the love of my life was in the crowd, and for once I had such a good reason to make a scene that no one was going to blame me for it.
I ended up not making a scene, just vaguely wetting my cheecks and seeking some hugs — exactly as I didn’t make a scene when I first learned she was dead. All I was concerned with, then, was my period, and having to go sleep at my grandma’s instead of staying at the hospital with my brother that had pneumonia. Like that other time the same brother broke his arm, and all I could think about was finding someone who could text my granny, because I had no money on my phone and she was expecting us for lunch. Apparently the only way I can express love for that brother of mine, when I panic, is by getting my grandma involved — but that’s another story.