The Thing About Death
That’s the thing about death. It doesn’t hit you.
You don’t feel it when you see them bed-ridden with their skin more pale than the white-washed walls of a prison cell. You don’t feel it when you see their hands tremble doing some thing- some thing so incredibly ordinary. You don’t even feel it when the doctors give you a time stamp, like its the expiry date on a carton of milk. You don’t feel it when you can barely hear them talk through the stutter and stammer of struggling sounds. You don’t even feel it when you stop hearing it. When you stop feeling the warm air blow against their nose and when you can’t feel their pulse as you gently press your fingers against their wrinkled skin. You still, don’t feel it.
You feel it when it’s all over. When the flowers are taken away, the prayers have been said, the kind words have been imparted. When your eyes are malfunctioning faucets, your cheeks have touched others’ far too many times, your throat is consistently at the verge of explosion and your ears have heard “sorry,” one too many times. When the casket is closed, the box is buried, and your loss is no longer an event.
That’s when you feel it.
When you’re on the way home from the event and you turn to look over your shoulder to make a playful remark about their hair, and they’re not there.
There’s an empty seat in the back of your car, much like the abyss that remains in your heart, the void that exists in your soul.
When you’re on the way out and she’s no longer there to ask you the thousand and one whys, wheres, whens, hows and according to her, most importantly the whos. When there’s no one to ask if you’ve eaten, what you’ve eaten, whether you enjoyed it, if you’d like some more, on a typical Sunday morning.
Because sympathy has now become robotic and “I’m here if you need me,” is exclaimed through their teeth and not their eyes. Their head pats and pitiful gazes are now mechanised and it’s alright. Because genuine or not, it wouldn’t bring her back.
It wouldn’t bring back the time you taught her how an iPod works, or the time she met your best friend, the time she had the talk about the bees, the birds, the boys, all the times she was just there. Whether you needed a disappointing gaze, a nod of approval, a flying kiss for reassurance, a whisper to “just let it go,” a head rub, a lecture, all the times. The countless times.
But that’s the thing about death. It hits you, now.
Where it hurts.
And the thing about life is, you have to hit back.
And in the words of Rudyard Kipling,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
Treat them the exact same. Celebrate her, her life.
Look at sandwiches and smile. Remembering the way she made you three types- beef, ham and egg, before she’d head off to work.
Look at your aiyyas and giggle. Thinking of the times you’d sleep, all 4 of you, cuddled up in your own little fort. Where she was Queen and you were her princess.
Remember her, so gracefully, on the balcony every day, sinking in all the goodness around her, being one with nature, with the wind running through her hair.
Ah her hair, remember how she’d never leave the house without massacring her hair, drawing on her eyebrows and putting on just enough lipstick. Enough to arm her in her fierce defence in the name of cricket, politics, and most importantly, family.
Watch the dogs beside the road and remember how much she loved them almost as much as she loved her newspaper, coffee and occasional good glass of Brandy.
Most importantly, look at yourself in the mirror, and remember what she’d undoubtedly tell you every time she’d meet you,
“You’re beautiful.”
This Christmas, this Easter and this birthday, she won’t be there. But make sure you celebrate. Because she loved celebrating, and as much as you’ll miss her hugs more than her cards- filled to the brim with money, celebrate.
Celebrate her life because she lived a life worth celebrating.
