What my Uncle’s kids taught me about grief in four days

It has been seven months since the death of my beloved uncle. Last month it was a significant six months later. I recall driving to Yellow Springs (Ohio) to commemorate the half year mark. It was a beautiful, warm Sunday. I felt somber and yet grateful to have been able to walk barefoot at the park.

Then March came along. March 28th to be exact. It was a Monday this time.

My two little cousins (my uncle’s kids) were in town for Spring Break. I had promised them a trip they would remember along with visiting my uncle’s grave which was just outside of D.C in Laurel Maryland. Yes, this would be quite the trip.

That Monday, we ventured off to the mountains of West Virginia to a park I had fallen in love with on Christmas. There were five of us. All girls. My little cousins, 15 and 18 along with my little sisters, 13, and 15.

All four of these young girls resembled vibrant, charismatic, young women. They laughed. Flipped their hair back at the same time. Shared lipstick and rested their heads on each others’ shoulders as if there were no other way to sleep.

When we arrived in West Virginia, it was almost dusk. They were hungry so we stopped at a local restaurant. The girls told jokes to offset any uncomfortable feelings they had about being in the middle of nowhere. I made them listen to my favorite country songs on our way there in a humorous attempt to prepare these city girls for the mountains. Whenever they asked where we were headed, I replied by singing Brad Paisley’s ‘Mud on the Tires”.

“In the middle of nowhere, only one way to get there, you gotta get a little mud on the tires”

They got a kick out of it and asked me to play more Alan Jackson songs.

After a few hours, here we were nestled in a booth at at Little Andi’s restaurant near our destination; a rambunctious but fun loving crowd of five. We tried to eat quickly but the jokes never let up.

Beside us there was a family of six. A couple with four young children who seemed too quiet for their own good. I looked in awe with my parental lens and told the girls they should be more like those kids. The girls countered my sentiments by implying kids under ten should NEVER be that quiet. Every time, the youngest girl of the family looked over at us with her piercing blue eyes, the girls wanted to adopt her and show her a “better life”. Little would this cute toddler know that this life mainly consisted of endless teasing and fart jokes.

We did not get to the park in time to see the falls so we checked into our cabin instead; a charming log cabin with no WiFi or TV. The girls, who favored snapchat as their main source of communication, appreciated this. We had playing cards, scrabble, and great stories to swap.

Once we got settled, the 18 year old insisted she wanted to be called Leyla, the lumberjack. Her first order of business was fetching the wood, which was just outside in a shed, to make the fire for the fireplace.

She called me outside wearing a maroon plaid shirt (which I later borrowed), and asked me to take a picture of her fetching the already chopped wood. I obliged but stopped upon hearing her scream. “A spider! Oh God, its a spider”, she shrieked.

Yes, Leyla, the lumberjack was afraid of spiders. I did not tell her at the time but her promising lumberjack career ended in that wood shed. Inside, we did not have any luck with starting the fire. Perhaps it was our taking turns in lighting a match and throwing it on the wood. Yes, I was guilty of that too but hey, I am not the self -proclaimed lumberjack.

Later, we received help from Jimmy, the maintenance man at the park. He came in to the cabin and asked, “You got any newspaper?” We looked at each other in embarrassment. Feeling a wave of confidence, I blurted, “Wait, I have a New York Times paper you can use. Burn all of it, they would not publish my essay”. The girls laughed as I relished my retribution on The Times.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was up against as I heard Jimmy say in his exasperated West Virginian accent, “It won’t burn. You got anything else?”

Oh, poetic justice. Not only did The Times not publish me but it refused to burn.

With a desperate and deflated ego, I reached for my journal and ripped a few pages out. Alas, a fire was born!

Leyla, the lumberjack still took credit for the fire. I let her have it only after I asked her to let me borrow her lumberjack shirt for a photo shoot by the fire with my tea. She agreed and they took turns photographing me by the fire. By the time we found a good one, the fire had all but died.

By midnight, we were exhausted. The girls fell asleep quickly while I, behaving like a paranoid mother, lied awake mistaking every creek for the black bears Jimmy had told us about. “They’re harmless” he said. Eventually, I fell asleep too and the next morning we went to see the falls.

I had asked the girls if they wanted to write something on a card for my uncle and throw it on to the falls. It would be our way of “releasing it on to the universe”, I had explained. They thought it was great idea. After breakfast we went to stare at nature in its glory. They were equally in awe of the falls. I watched them and felt a deep sensation of love and gratitude. We were sharing this together and in this moment, nothing else mattered.

As I look at these pictures and into their smiling faces, I cannot help but think of my uncle. I wonder how proud he would be to see us enjoying nature in his memory.

The next day we drove to Laurel to see him. The girls were very brave. I told them it was okay to cry as they fought back their tears. It was a sunny day and I told them how every time I come to his grave, it is a beautiful day with cleansing winds. It was very much like that August day we buried him. In our moments of shock, D.C lived on. The sun shined and the light wind comforted us. I told them I think its the light he has left behind with us. They smiled meekly.

They each sat down by the grave and uttered private prayers for him. Afterwards, we all stood and stared into the distance surrounded by his love and the wind that hugged and tugged at us.

I could not help but smile. It had been seven months and the tears were not as painful as the months before. I smiled because I realized that the grieving process would never end. Not for me and certainly not for them.

I smiled more because I reveled at the beauty of these two amazing young girls looking up to me. They were very much like him especially the eighteen year old. I wonder how proud of them he would be. I shook my head, knowing the answer.

We stayed in Laurel that night. Then in Cumberland the next night just minutes away from the house they grew up.

By the time we headed home on that Thursday, we were tired but fulfilled. This trip was suppose to be a one night adventure to WV followed by a visit to the grave site the next day.

Instead, it became a series of spontaneous adventures that would forever be imprinted in their hearts; the same hearts that treasured the memory of the man who inspired the trip.

Seven long months later and I learn that grief does not have to strike with intensity each time it plagues our thoughts. Through this trip, these girls taught me that we can carry on and smile whilst carrying our grief with us. Their love for life was contagious.

Looking at them, I see my uncles’s indentations on their faces. I long to see him and praise him on his job well done.

Somehow, I think he already knows this truth.

Live on, Uncle Ali. Thank you for all you have given me. In life and especially in death.