My Grandmother passed away exactly one month ago today - the 10th of April 2012. She passed away while I was mopping her forehead, and praying every prayer I was ever taught in all my twenty years. She passed away before I got to tell her "goodbye." Even before I got to tell her, "I love you." She was gone before I realised it, and I was left calling to her corpse. They say, "ignorance is bliss", but I wish I'd known. I wish I'd known what to do when I first saw her in that state; I wish I'd known what she needed when she looked at me with those wild eyes; I wish I'd known what she was trying to say with her mouth that opened and closed, but never let free its captive voice; I wish I'd known that she was leaving me; I wish I'd known that I was standing right there, in the room, standing next to Death.
I didn't cry that week. On the night of her demise, I shed a few tears. I remember, one of my cousins enveloped me in a hug, and didn't let go, even when I said, "It's alright. I'm ok. It's ok", he didn't believe me, and he didn't let go, and that's when, for a few minutes, my body processed that something momentous had just occurred and gave way to the fear that had built up over the few hours past. There was something about being held, about feeling safe, about letting someone else be strong for me that made my armour crack...even if it was for a short time. It felt good. To be taken care of. Especially after having had to be in charge of a situation that left me feeling completely helpless and redundant. And then I patched myself back together and locked my tears away - there was no room for my tears in a home already so overflowing with them, someone needed to mop it all up, and I gladly took up that role: it was so much easier than feeling. So much easier to pretend this was not my tragedy.
Let me tell you, I did not miss her that night. I did not sit next to her body either. I watched from afar, thinking, "She'll wake up just now." Even as her last moments flashed through my mind, I still stubbornly believed, she was just asleep. You would think having been there with her when she died, I would know better, but I didn't. I did not even miss her the next day. I sat down next to her body, I stared at her face, I was even the one to cover it up for the very last time - because nobody else seemed to be able to handle that task, and after all, this was not my tragedy. But, I did not miss her. That could have been any old, frail woman as far as I was concerned. That was not my Grandmother. Even as they carried her body out of the house. Even as I watched her disappear past the threshold for her final journey, I did not miss her.
That night they drugged me. After 39 hours of mopping up everyone else's salty memories, they decided that I had done enough, that I could not go on. I could, Oh, I could have gone on for days and days. I could have gone on without missing her. But I slept. I fell into medicated dreams. And woke up not long after, running to the stairs, with her voice in my ears and her name on my lips, before I realised that she had not called me. No, I had not heard her call me. She had not called me, because she was no longer around to call me. And then, I remember missing her. I wanted to cry, I felt the tears rush up to my eyes. I wanted to cry, but then I listened to the house around me, still as death. I listened and could not find the tears or the memories that had been wafting around it the past few days. I listened and could not find the permission. The time for tears had passed, and I had missed it. I swallowed it all back down, and clamped the lid on my sorrow. The time for tears had passed.
That week passed me by in a blur. I was teaching at the time, and I remember going back to my classes. I remember looking at them and thinking, "They have no idea. None of these boys and girls have any idea. The World has changed, and they do not even know it." I didn't realise back then, that The World hadn't changed, I had. It is a humbling experience, to watch someone die. It is a humbling experience, when you stand shoulder to shoulder with Death, and don't even recognise him. People asked me, "How are you?" and I replied, "I'm fine," with a smile. Not a bright one, a small smile, that could be believed. A small smile that said, "You cannot expect me to be fine. But I am." I did not miss her again.
Five days later I cried. I cried over the phone. I cried because on the other end of the line, was the only person who knew what I needed. I cried, till I could not speak. I cried because it was too painful, to carry all those bricks in my chest. I cried because my shoulders slumped with the weight of a houseful of tears. I cried because I felt useless. I cried because I could not stop her from dying. I cried for the years I spent running around her in circles; for the endless cakes she would make me; for the times she would spin me around in her beautiful rose garden; for the times she would rock me to sleep; for all the dresses she sewed for me; for all the chicken soups she cured me with; for all the bedtime stories; for all the body rubs; for all the hugs; for all the kisses; for all the years we spent together; for all the wisdom she shared with me; for all the nights she spent staying up all night trying to sooth my infant cries; for all the roti; for all the curries; for all the muffins she loved to make; for all the car rides; for all the times she soothed my wounded pride; for her scent; for her endless patience; for her strength; for her pain; for her simple minded love. There was nobody to hold me. There was nobody to dry my tears. There was nobody to asphyxiate the anguish out of my body. There was just Khadija, on the other end of the line, who told me that it was okay to cry. Khadija, who was willing to be strong for me, so that I could mend my tumultuous dam. I cried, because I was given permission to cry. That was my chance and I took it. I listened to the house that night, and it sighed. It sighed, and I sighed with it. I did not cry again. I have not cried since. But, I miss her every day.
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