I remember being around ten or eleven the first time I ever saw my mother cry. The waterfalls and wails from my mother still haunt me.
My aunt—her sister—had died. I remember glancing around the compact and stuffy church, a sheen of sweat coating my forehead. Anxiety was building, and I wanted to leave. Everybody was crying, bawling, bent at the waist as if ill. As a child, I couldn’t quite comprehend the finality of what was happening. My cousin and I held shaky hands as we shuffled along in the line to view her body. My heart sank into my stomach, and I couldn’t quite believe she could no longer hug me tight and ask me how school was going. It made me contemplate existential questions way sooner than I probably should have. As a twenty-six-year-old today, death and funerals still make me anxious. But, I understand that not attending would only lead to more unrest. I realize that funerals are for the living. Even knowing that, it was no easier watching my grandmother’s casket being lowered into the ground.
Several heads turned to peek at me as I stepped into the sanctuary. My black pumps sunk into the plush carpet as I scurried to a seat. The church was packed, and it was not a small church. People shifted their feet every once in a while, as if the floor was lava. A bead of sweat ran down my back, and I shivered slightly in my seat. The pastor kept reinforcing that the woman lying before us wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad. “She would want us to have joy, for she gets to rest now!” I wanted to be joyful, but I couldn’t find the happiness in never knowing my last living grandparent. His words were for the family and strangers around me.
The eulogies were restricted to two minutes max, which was merely a suggestion. For once, I didn’t mind the lengthy tales about how this woman had transformed lives. Whether it was her decades-long career as an educator, a neighborhood refuge, or the matriarch of the family, each story was personal. The mayor even signed a certificate recognizing all her achievements. She was their queen, and they weren’t afraid to share about her commitment to her people. After many great stories, the service came to an end.
My mother and I met up and ambled outside. She squeezed my hand, probably hoping to send me support through the gesture. I got pulled into about twelve different directions after that. I braved the weird introductions my father made. In a flurry, I met an uncle, aunt, and about fifteen cousins. When we were done loitering outside the church, it was time to head to the burial.
I have attended my fair share of funerals in the past three years. Two aunts and one cousin later, I knew the order of things very well. But it was something about this service that made me take pause. While thankful to be there, I was tired and mentally exhausted with an expired social meter. But, watching my grandmother be lowered into the ground, having never uttered a word to her, took my breath away.
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Growing up, I realized early on that Black elders die young. My last living grandparent was my father’s mother. I wanted to know her, hear the stories of her life. I yearned to have summers at Grandma’s house and have the honor of sitting on the floor while she braided my hair. But I never got those experiences. Family dynamics and time got in the way, like always.
As a child and throughout young adulthood, I often wondered if my grandmother ever thought about me. I’m sure she did, but I wanted to make sure. I had made plans to meet her that December for Christmas, but they fell through. I just missed her; she died the following February. She completed the quartet. All of my grandparents are gone now.
I still dream of my grandmother and all my grandparents. Sometimes, it’s the picture-perfect version with quaint houses on family-owned streets, gardens, and numerous farm animals. Sometimes, it’s less than ideal scenarios. While these dreams may be close or far from reality, they keep my grandparents with me. They allow me to create my own relationships with them. I carry them with me through every achievement and hardship. I feel close to them, even if I never met them. It sounds far-fetched, but I miss them. I grapple with that concept still: missing someone you never met.
So, this is a love letter for them. This is for my grandmothers who my Momma named me after. This is for my grandfathers who guided my parents through life. This is for my brother who was taken too soon. This is for my feisty aunt with the best orangesicle cake recipe and my Bible-wielding aunt with the best cornbread recipe. This is for my uncle who told me I look like my Momma every chance he got and my uncle who always took a minute to ask me how I was doing. This is for my cousin who always handed me a dollar or two when she saw me and my cousin who taught me how to peel crawfish. This is for all my late family members who, whether they knew me or not, empower me today. I want them to know they are not and will never be forgotten. I plan to make sure of it. But most of all, I want them to know, I still think of you.
Luci Strong is a budding writer, hailing from Mississippi. Her Southern experiences and upbringing shape her writing. She loves to read romances, thrillers, and fantasy novels. When she is not reading, writing, or working in healthcare, she enjoys baking, hanging out with family and friends, and binging various TV shows (current binge: Real Housewives of Atlanta).
Featured image by Thea HDC on unsplash.
