Lest we forget?
#5: On the paradox of grieving (and a reading list)
It’s 2:14am as I write this and it’s the third piece I’ve started in the past half hour, seems like it’s all just pouring out of me tonight. Enjoy the impromptu rebrand, by the way – started feeling like I’d outgrown the whole ‘nascent’ sentiment.
It’s a death anniversary today. Seven years since I lost my youngest aunt, who was more like the older sister I never had given our relatively small age gap. In a few weeks, it’ll be eight years since I lost my paternal grandad. Usually, this time of year passes by without me giving it a second thought but my sensitivity to grief, as I mentioned back in November, is heightened at the moment.
I asked my mum how she was feeling yesterday: She’s the eldest sister, one of five, used to be six, as well as two brothers. I only have the one older brother, so can’t begin to imagine what that’s like. I told her about my concern that I’d started to forget over the years, and she replied that it was a mercy, the ability to move on.
But is it, really?
I don’t remember the sound of her [my aunt’s] voice. I don’t remember the sound of her laugh. I don’t remember what our last conversation was. There have been several years that have passed and I haven’t even remembered the significance of today’s date. That’s the hardest part about grief, I think: the forgetting. The guilt of forgetting and the knowledge that you’re losing parts of them and, consequently, parts of yourself. For what are we if not tapestries; woven together parts of everyone and everything we love and have loved? That’s not to say that I wish to be stuck in the past, the emotions and the trauma of it all still raw, but moving on and forward feels like betrayal at times, even though I know it’s what they’d want.
What strikes me the most this year is that at 25, I’m now closer to the age that she was when she passed, than to the age I was (30/18 respectively). Logically, I know that’s insignificant but it feels like it means something; God only knows what it’ll be like when I reach the first age she never had a chance to.
That my grief no longer consumes me is indeed a mercy but forgetting it – forgetting them – is one of my most profound fears and it’s already happening. The experiences of their deaths are, of course, inextricable parts of me, given the life stages they occurred at. Their essences, on the other hand, those are what I struggle to recall and hold on to.
—
Are moving forward and keeping their memories alive antithetical? Is it healthier to be indifferent, rather than wallowing in feelings that lead to nowhere pleasant? Do I just need more time to figure out how to balance the two, instead of swinging between extremes? Have I not had enough time already? Is there such thing as ‘enough time’? Who knows.
Grief: a truly formidable foe. I know there’s no right or wrong way to navigate it but when I do find myself caught in its throes, logic and rationality cease to exist.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
—
Seeing as this newsletter has somehow turned into an extension of my bookish feats, here are a few books with some of my favourite explorations of grief (in reverse chronological order of reading):
Western Lane by Chetna Maroo
As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow by Zoulfa Katouh
The Blue Between Sky and Water by Susan Abulhawa
Rouge by Mona Awad
New Animal by Ella Baxter
Writers and Lovers by Lily King
A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum
—
Sorry to be a downer on a Monday, oops. This was an entirely unplanned post, but felt like a necessary one. Hope you have a lovely week - here’s Lexi being a princess for a mood boost xxx
