Nursing Grief
“Abandoning old ways and breaking old patterns is like dying, at least dying to old ways of life for an unknown new life of meaning and relationship. But living without change is not living at all, not growing at all. Dying is a precondition for living.” - Mwalimu Imara quoted by bell hooks in Sisters of the Yam, Black Women and Recovery
“It's so embarrassing / All of the things I need living inside of me” - SZA, Blind
hi my love,
thanks for being here. with me. with us. I know it’s been a while, three years and ten months to be exact. the last time I wrote I was in a space of raging grief. Rage is still here and still lethal. Grief is here, too, though a bit more reconciled. in our time apart someone else has joined us, a self named Peace. we don’t play 'bout her. but before I get to Peace, let me tell you about Grief.
Grief is the dying self. we, the many selves, call her Grief because that’s all she’s given us for the past two and a half years. in ghana, Grief was quiet, solemn; she sat in the back of our mind silently weeping as we birthed and nurtured Peace, fighting for the newborn to live. when we - sometimes called I - returned to this side of the atlantic, we were quickly reminded how boisterous and mighty Grief had grown in her stupor. america, this place she calls home, had seen a COVID death toll of over 600,000 by the time we reached their shores.
upon landing, Grief instantly took over. eyes wide, smile beaming, she is grateful for some familiarity as we ride back to the brooklyn apartment that once housed us for some four years. the sunny third floor walk up was the first home Mother so lovingly made up for us. it is also the site of our fracturing. the Mother self appears filled with guilt as Grief takes centerstage - have we been gone for too long? together Mother and Grief walk back into the belly of the beast. Mother knows this won’t be good. just hours after we settle in, Grief begins to boil. Mother wants to keep her quiet, trying to avoid a scene. Mother hates a show.
Grief can’t help herself. she screams. there is no place for her, this is no place to her. she struggles to locate herself amongst the piles of clutter overwhelming our old home, barricading our passage into the past. this is all wrong, she says. Mother sits with remorse watching Grief take it all in, we have returned to the scene of the crime, she thinks. Grief is losing her smile, her wide eyes now swelling with tears, the home she thought would be a warm embrace feels like a cold factory.
in an attempt to comfort Grief, to bring back her smile, Mother makes offers to the spirits/humans who currently reside there. it’s as if Mother is speaking a different language. the others don’t understand, in fact they don’t have time to understand, life is happening for them, and we, the many who need things, need care, are an intrusion. they are tired and heavy with mourning. this, Mother understands, and so takes Grief out.
Grief likes to shop. Mother takes her to Beacon’s Closet. Grief likes sweets. Mother takes her to Georgetown Cupcake. Grief likes to dance. Mother takes her to Ode to Babel. Grief likes David. Mother takes her to him. Grief likes a crush, Mother finds her a few. this constant catering to Grief’s every desire seems to do the trick, giving Mother space and time to complete the tasks we assigned her upon returning: 1) get us to the wise man who fathered us and his people. they are a kind, trustworthy, and upstanding people. they will help you care for us, well. 2) find the farms and lend our body to them. the work we do there will be our solace, a protection spell as we traverse empire. 3) the last step, the most difficult one of them all: get us back to ghana.
Mother is as Mother always is - diligent, thorough, persistent. she is able to accomplish all three tasks in just under two months though not without Grief trailing behind her, sucking happily on the lollipop Mother shoves in her mouth to keep her from crying. You can’t cry here, Mother tells Grief - it’ll disturb Peace and we don’t need that, not right now, this is no place for Peace. You can cry in ghana, we can wake Peace in ghana, at the lake, but not here. so, PLEASE.
Grief don’t listen. Grief don’t see beyond herself. Grief wants comfort and Grief wants it now. her old apartment, her old friendships, her old life. when we make it to ghana, Rage appears and severs like we trust her to do. this sends Grief and Rage into a two week tussle while Mother rests. Rage as lethal as she is can’t match Grief. we stop the fighting, sit Grief down in front of her old life and press play. she shuts her eyes leaving Mother to step in, again. tired of her antics we go back to the lake and let Grief scream and cry and shout. Peace awakes. together, we all cry, we go for long walks, we swim, we float, we dream, we deliberate, and we remember. we have been chosen.
—
this a good place to stop. we’re sure you want to know what it is we were chosen to do. we want to tell you more about it but the moon is full and we are tired and hungry. Mother must feed us, commune with like spirits, and find rest for us. we will be back once we’ve done the things. thank you again for being here. we don’t take it for granted. if you like this story, perhaps you will enjoy one of these stories that have deeply inspired us and given us language to share ours:
Atlantics (Film)
Jambula Tree (Short story)
Freshwater (Novel)
United States of Tara (TV Series)
until then, my love.