a few years ago, i lost my young cousin in a fatal bike accident. everyone was in a state of shock. my aunt was, understandably, inconsolable. we spent days and nights crying, grieving over the sudden, shocking loss of a life so young.
there were a lot of visitors to the house. thoughtful, sympathetic people coming by to offer their sincere and heartfelt condolences. they were relatives we hadn't seen or heard from in years, friends who had always been around, in sunshine and rain, through the laughter and the pain, acquaintances, neighbours, colleagues, a lot of people.
everyone said a lot of things to my aunt and to the rest of us. i can only remember the words of one woman. i'm not sure who she is. possibly an acquaintance or old neighbour of my aunt. or she may have just accompanied an acquaintance or neighbour. i don't know.
she entered my aunt's bedroom and sat down on the floor. after a while, she spoke amid the loud cries of anguish and bitter tears of a mother who had just buried her younger son. "don't cry so much today," the woman said in Urdu.
"you will need these tears again. just like the seconds and minutes tick away on a clock, so will the pain of losing your child continue through the day, every single day, for the rest of your life. this will not end today, or tomorrow, or the days and months after that. make yourself strong so that when you spend the rest of your life crying, no one will ever know, and someday you will also not know anymore."
i turned to look at her, wondering who she was and why she was saying what she was. then someone else said, "she knows. she lost three of her children in a span of two years." they got up, hugged my aunt and left.
her words keep resonating in my mind even now. what if it's all just a way to kill time? no matter what you do and where you go and who you meet and who loves you and who you hold deep within the recesses of your heart. what if it's all just a way to while away the time before you stop feeling. anything. nothing.
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7 comments:
that just seems like such a bitter way to go about it...i'd choose the agony and the ecstasy over the numbness. then again, i have no idea what your aunt or that lady must have been through when they lost their children.
i wonder if it is ever possible to feel the pain of a person who has actually loved and lost... and I mean this in a very overall
Deep thoughts. We all have our way of coping. Sometimes the numbness is a blessing to give us time to be able to bear the pain.
When I lost my father it was as if I hadn't time to grieve at first to protect my mother but when she died it was a different story.
@Mentalie - I know, when I first heard those words I found them defeatist too. But over the years, they've proved to be true. Like you, I also will never know what my aunt and that lady go through even now. I think there's nothing worse than losing a child. It just goes against the natural order of things. It's something you can never recover from.
@Knife - No, it's not possible to feel that pain unless you go through it. We all have our crosses to bear. But it just makes you more sensitive and empathetic to those around you. Every time I look into my aunt's eyes, I see that she is slipping away. She buried a part of herself with the death of her son and it will never come back.
@Pat - I guess you are right, the numbness acts as a shock absorber of sorts. I think death is the worst part of living. As human beings, our attachments to others is too strong.
I can imagine that after losing 3 children in 2 years a mother would want to be numb for many, many years.
How is your aunt now, Cloud?
@GG - My aunt is just going through the motions. Her older son has two kids but they all live in the US. My uncle passed away less than two years after my cousin died, so she is basically alone. She finds solace in prayer and spirituality but I can see the pain in her eyes still. It's irrevocable.
You know what?
She is right.
And you know what I love about this woman?
She was brave enough to be honest in a way I have never heard someone speak about the reality of dealing with the passing of those we carry in our hearts, much less children for whom we had dreams.
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