I’ve always wondered what it’s like to grieve over something or someone you’ve lost; how your arms were wrapped around this person’s body one day, and the next day, you are clothed in black, eyes reddened from crying. You are standing over their grave, bidding farewell. It’s quite frightening, isn’t it? I suppose that is why I empathise with old people— they stay alive for so long that they wear the aura or stench of grief like their favourite jewelry.

What does it mean to grieve?

When my grandfather died, my mother who I’d known to be strong and not easily moved to emotions, cried her eyes out. There were tears that I saw, but these weren’t nearly as many as the ones I did not see. It is quite unusual for a child to see their parent cry because our parents were the strongest people we knew as kids. So, imagine my reaction to my mother’s tears. I felt confused and useless. Useless because there was nothing I could do about it. I’ve never been good at consoling people, hugging them, wiping their tears and patting their backs, how much more a person who was burying their father.

During the funeral, she cried again, with my aunty this time. People came to pat her back and tell her it was okay. For some reason, this didn’t sit well with me. I don’t suppose there’s a correct way to console a bereaved person. I used to think that telling them it was the Lord’s doing, or that God had called them home, or that it was their time, or that they were resting, would be enough to get them to feel better, but life is not a movie. Truth be told, if I was grieving and someone told me any of those, there better be a crowd to keep my fist from their face.

If you’re wondering how I felt about my grandfather’s death, I’ll tell you. I felt nothing. I searched and found nothing. It might have been the fact that I hardly knew the man. I can count on one hand how many times I met him, and there would still be two fingers left.

Nothing prepares you for the loss of a loved one. Yes, they might have been old or sick or suffering. But then,  the cold realisation that you will never see this person again settles in, and it’s devastating. I have this bad habit (I hope I’m not alone in this) of imagining my reaction to the news of losing someone close. It first brings tears to my eyes, and the sense of loss and grief then settles on my mind like a blanket.

For those who might have never lost a person to good old death before, we often think that we haven’t gotten a taste of grief. I don’t think that’s exactly true. When you check for grief in the dictionary, you don’t see anything about death, you know. There are so many things you may have grieved without even realizing it. The loss of a friendship. The loss of a familiar feeling. The loss of an opportunity. The loss of something you’ve never had. The loss of childhood.

We’ve all grieved over one of these things before. This makes grief a part of our everyday lives. I wrote a poem once about grieving over someone who is still alive. Our hearts grow cold and souls go distant, and you mourn the loss of a bond you once shared. Some of us grieve over the loss of a childhood we never got to live fully. Either we grew up too fast or a trauma befell us, cutting our days of innocence short.

People often talk about the five stages of grief— denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and anger— and over time, I’ve come to realize how accurate this is. In the end, we are all humans at different stages of mourning. And no, it’s not fair. Yes, it feels like a hand is plunged into your chest to squeeze your tender heart. There are days when you will look at a chair and all you can think about is the person who used to sit on it; how their laughter made the air seem joyful. There are times when the longing will claw at your skin; times when your soul feels lost without them, but you can’t connect.

Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language.

-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Notes on Grief)

As we grow older, and maybe after suffering a loss, there is this feeling that more losses will happen, and you think that maybe after three or more people have died, you’ll get used to it. But it never happens. You will grow old and the weariness of grief will show on your skin like wrinkles and grey hair.

But what do you know? After grief comes acceptance. When my mother starts to speak about her father, there is a wistful look on her face, but I no longer see the twinge of pain in her eyes. Maybe it’s something that still breaks her, but she’s accepted the fact that he is no longer here. And she’s consciously holding on to his memories.

Wear your grief like it’s your worst dress, the one you just have to wear. Don’t let anyone tell you how you must grieve. Cry if you must, scream if it’s too much. Never feel reduced by grief; never be afraid of being human. There is an ache that will never go, but there is you to hold on to the memories of when sparkles of life twinkled in their eyes. There is healing. There is life.

_{The Pen Lover is a young poet, writing therapist, and avid reader who writes about melancholy, love, and women’s prowess. When she’s not writing, she’s immersed in the world of novels.}