I hate funerals. I have always hated them. I hate the halls of weeping mourners, kissing, touching and lamenting over a human-shaped lump of meat. I loathe the pastor who speaks of a dead man as a saint, and how God, Jesus or whoever would ‘redeem his soul and reward him for his sacrifice.’ People aren’t perfect. The lives of humans are filled with mistakes and regrets. Just because you die doesn’t make all of that dissipate into nothing. People place faith in the dead because the dead can’t do anything wrong, not anymore. Even with all of her mistakes, however, my grandmother, not the one in the casket, the real one that I keep in my memories, was a woman who was perfectly flawed.
My mother called to me from upstairs, her voice unsteady. I guessed as to what could have happened as I reluctantly scaled the staircase. I wasn’t far from the truth. Even so, nothing could have prepared me.
You never expect to see your parents crying. From when they first cradle you in their arms, they are your pillar of strength when the world around is constantly changing, threatening to collapse. On that day I held my own weeping mother in my arms. My pillar of strength had finally collapsed under the weight of the world. It was my turn to return the favour when she needed me most. As my shoulder heavied under the weight of tears, I desperately held back my own.
For the rest of that day my mind was cluttered. Relatives: my cousins, aunts and uncles, all came by, sobbing as I greeted them. The only words that came out of my mouth were words of welcoming, consolation and sympathy. The words in my mind did not pass my lips.
“Do not cry. These people need someone strong. If they see me, the youngest of their group shedding tears, it will only serve to intensify their pain.”
“Damn you, you insensitive bastard! Can you not even cry for your own grandmother? You don't even love her enough to spare the time to grieve? You’re weak. You only hide from your feelings.”
The voices in my head continued their sermons through my every move. Self-doubt set in, causing me to second-guess my every thought, action and emotion.
‘Pack your bags, for about a week, maybe. My mother needs space and time. After all, her own mother is now dead.’
‘Fool! She needs no such thing from you. All you are doing is running away from your problems, afraid of your true pain.”
“I need my space as well, to sort out my head. I’ll sit against a tree in a quiet place and think, remember and grieve.”
“Have you been planning the death of a loved one for this long? You’re thinking as though you’re a character in a movie! How shallow are you to be planning the coolest way to lament in the wake of death?”
I found myself cleaning the floors. In their sorrow somebody had spilled their tea. That was my job now - to be the person to do the chores and tasks while others’ lives were temporarily put on hold. As I was outside, rinsing out the cloth, feeling the cool water slip between my fingers, my mother approached me and said,
“I’m going to Cape Town to… see grandma. I need to be there. You should keep going to school. You have exams to study for.”
“She’s right, you know,” my voices informed me. “For now you need to concentrate on what is important.”
“And Grandma was never important!? Was she so unimportant that she is only second priority?”
It was becoming too much to handle. The cacophony of my own inner voices threatened to drive me insane. My head was going to burst. I slammed the wet rag against the wall, leaning on it as water dribbled down the concrete. For the first time, the voices went quiet;
and then I sobbed.
My mother held me again, comforted me as I let free my restrained heartache.
The garage gate squealed as a new arrival pulled in. I tore myself away from my mother’s embrace once again. Now, without doubt, I knew.
I had a job to do.
Yet another one of my school projects from two years ago. I'm pretty ashamed to say that I used this to get actual marks, and that everything in here is true. I'm also ashamed to say that, when the time came and I had a falling-out with those voices and they left me, I missed them deeply. It can feel lonely sometimes.
But It's nice to have only two cognisant speeches at any point in time. It makes writing a lot easier, and it means that you don't break your hand punching at nothing.
The past is done, and so is the chapter where I feel ashamed for some of the things I have done. Now to do even more.
See you next time, I hope.
ns 18.68.41.177da2
