When I was about sixteen years old, my cousin died. It was unexpected and it was a huge shock. Everyone was devastated – of course. As anyone would be when a teenage boy tragically and unexpectedly dies. I remember everyone crying a lot. I also remember not crying much. His sister, always my closest family member was broken. I remember being there for her. I remember how in her grief, she would lash out at me. But I do not remember crying. Several years later, my father too, died tragically
They say death is the number one fear. Not to me. I’m not afraid of dying. You see to me you’re alive And then you’re not Just light one minute and darkness the next No I’m not afraid of dying. Only the bereaved I’d leave behind. You see I know that feeling all too well The pain that fills the void The heart-break that fills the silence The longing that remains When love has died I’m afraid of the hole left behind I’m afraid of the tears
A few weeks ago, my doorbell rang. It was my uncle dropping off some things from my grandmother’s house. You see, my grandmother died in January. A few days after my 33rd birthday – while I was lying in hospital. This woman had been like my mother. For ten years of my life she took care of me, she brushed my hair, she dressed me, she made my lunch. She loved me like I was her child. When I turned 13, I packed my bags and moved in with my
Sometime in September, after I had given birth to my son and landed up in ICU after severe complications, my mother walked into my room in the intensive care unit and with one look I knew she was there to break the news to me. The cancer that was eating him alive had finally beaten him. His body was weak, it was no surprise. It hurt but it was also a relief to know his suffering was over. “More and more, when I single out the person out who inspired
Disclaimer: Due to the nature of this post it may be offensive to some. Please note that my intention is not to offend anyone nor is it my intention to cause discomfort. My blog posts are based on my personal experiences and death and religion are two topics that have had a profound impact on my life. There are times in your life that really define you. Moments that can clearly be described as before and after moments. Before I learned to walk, after my parents got divorced, before I
I have always loved writing. When I was a teenager the act of writing gave me solace from the angst that was my world. Late at night when everyone was asleep, I would open up one of my notebooks and pour my heart out. If I had nothing to write about I would listen to the radio and find my inspiration in the songs that came on. A word, a verse, an idea, all led to sentences streaming across the page. I would stay awake till long after 3am, surrounded
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