The things that happened after you died; a letter undelivered.

Dear Nana, 

I think I've accepted your death now. I picture it vividly sometimes. I sit by myself and think about your last moments and accept that they happened and I wasn't with you, that it was for the better. Three years ago, at 9:31 in the night, which strangely enough is the time right now, I was angry. with God. No, Not with God, but myself. I was angry with myself and I took that anger out on God. (I think people are only ever angry at God because they want someone to be angry with, someone who isn't themselves). 

So much has happened since you died. I stopped considering it a passing a while ago; I think you would have hated that term. You liked certainty and your life had so little of it. Where you are now is a better place, but where you once were was a good one. You wanted it to be, so it was. 

1. I quit my job today. I marvel at time and its consideration. I am obliged to believe that destiny, despite its deliberate desire to taunt, is on my side. I started this job not because I wanted to teach. It was a desperate attempt at being of some use to you and I think it served its purpose well. What a lot of people don't know is that I only ever started working because you had a million things you wanted to do in your final moments and I was sick of feeling helpless. You know, it lost all meaning the moment you left. I couldn't bring myself to enjoy it, even if I desperately wanted to. I'll miss it, but I'll be better without it; every cent I earned was a wish I could not grant, and I couldn't continue without feeling sick to my stomach about it. I love teaching, you know this. You told me it suited me well. But it became another thing I stopped caring for after you left. 

2. I wrote a book. And I hated myself for it. I used to write it when you were asleep beside me. I thought I'd let you read it when you got better. You never did. Still, foolishly I believed if the world would read it, it would be worth something. But you see, it was more than just another story and it was written when every wound was too fresh. I should have waited to heal, I thought. Better yet, I should have never written it. But the thing about writing is that, you never know what it is you want to say until you've said it. I hated my story because I didn't think it was the right one to share, but it was. It is a quiet confession, and a very tragic truth; it's not okay to not be okay, no matter what the mental health slogans say. It's not okay, but that doesn't mean it'll be that way forever. I think you would have loved Victoria more than I ever can. I think you would have touched every page and given me a knowing look every time a piece of the puzzle fell into place. I would like to think that you would have been my first critique and I would have cried myself to sleep over your harsh truths. I can delude myself into wanting all of this to be true, but you and I both know this book would not exist if you did. You aren't meant to exist in the same universe. You'll always be my muse, but you were never meant to know that.

3. I went to therapy. You know, they don't kid when they say grief is overwhelming. I learned that I don't have the healthiest coping mechanisms - no surprise there, I suppose. You'd have probably loved Dr. M. He's the kind of person you'd have badgered with questions. He's also the kind of person who would have badgered you right back. I had this period of bleakness I still don't quite understand - mama says it was two weeks, it felt like two months. Realistically, it was two decades worth of unresolved trauma. I couldn't sleep, you know? I would stay up and pray that something would happen to me so I could justify the pain. It hurt everywhere. I lay on the floor most of those nights, and I listened to static, then I listened to Maze in the Mirror, because that's what those days felt like. Like I was in a maze, or a mirror. Trapped, inside myself. 

4. I learned to sleep alone. I moved back into my room. I decided to paint the walls with little unassuming doodles every single time I felt like the world would be better off without me in it. Dr. M said it's normal to want to die after someone you love does, but I don't think he understood me that well - I didn't want to die, I just didn't want to live a life you would never be a part of. I had to restructure my thoughts as therapy homework - I stopped painting the wall destructively, and only ever did it when I was happy. I had friends over and I handed them paint brushes to leave their mark. And it felt cathartic. To create, I learned, is not to destroy but to remind; we painted the walls over in white not too long after but I live with the reminder that the paintings still exist underneath. That even if they're out of sight now, that doesn't mean my room is devoid of them. I think Dr. M would have liked to know that his homework worked: life without you in it will never exist, because you were once in it and so, you will continue to be, even if you're out of my sight at the moment. 

5. I made new friends. I didn't think I ever would. How could I welcome someone new into my life and know they would never know who I was when you were around? Frankly, I still haven't figured this one out. Even now, as I write this with the intention to post it, I know some of them will read this and know of you for the first time, and I know I will give them no explanation. You'd think it becomes easier over time, but my throat closes up on itself every time someone asks me about you. What can I tell them for them to understand the magnanimous force you were? How can I expect them to understand you when I know they will never meet you? Even today, I felt my eyes sting when I told someone that I have one sibling, had two. It seems wrong to not mention you, and it seems worse to mention you so briefly. And it'll happen over and over again. Everyday I'll meet someone new and they'll learn of me, then of you, and I'll have to pretend you didn't die and they'll have to pretend they understand. It makes me want to crawl into your grave and sit next to you while you sleep, to card my fingers through your hair and have you swat them away. To fall asleep to the sound of your ragged breathing and to know that nothing else matters. But I can't do that. Instead, I must wake each day and face the cruel sun and blink away the memory of your eyes. 

I don't like to think of you often, nana. It scares me to. Because when I think of you, I think of the life you should have had, and how every breath I waste is one you would have cherished. I look at the sky somedays and I hate what I'm becoming because I know you wouldn't recognize me. I talk to people and try to replace their voices with yours but it stopped sounding real years ago. It's only been three years. It's been three long years. It's been thirty six months. It's been 1905 days and I want to eat my heart out because it still beats when yours doesn't.

But that won't bring you back, and I've accepted it. You died. It happened. and I'll continue to miss you. and it will continue to hurt, and sometimes, like tonight, I'll cry myself to sleep over you and I will force myself to remember you even if the images in my mind are never quite as real as you once were. I'll wipe our mother's tears and listen to dada's silent recollections and ask Naasith to tell me about the forever we thought we had with you. I'll post this tonight and read condolences you would have smiled over and ignore the urge to write about you until another April rolls around and I can give myself this one recompense without feeling like the midnight screeching of a whistle bird, without feeling like I'll wear your memory thin by writing about you all the time. 

I hope my grief isn't too heavy, I know you never liked carrying things. I hope there's so much light around you tonight. I hope you're sound asleep. I hope you recognize me when we meet, in a better place where grief will be a distant memory and you will be as real as you once were. 

All my love, 
Nangi. 

***

Dua for the deceased : 

اللهُـمِّ اغْفِـرْ لَهُ وَارْحَمْـه ، وَعافِهِ وَاعْفُ عَنْـه ، وَأَكْـرِمْ نُزُلَـه ، وَوَسِّـعْ مُدْخَـلَه ، وَاغْسِلْـهُ بِالْمـاءِ وَالثَّـلْجِ وَالْبَـرَدْ ، وَنَقِّـهِ مِنَ الْخطـايا كَما نَـقّيْتَ الـثَّوْبُ الأَبْيَـضُ مِنَ الدَّنَـسْ ، وَأَبْـدِلْهُ داراً خَـيْراً مِنْ دارِه ، وَأَهْلاً خَـيْراً مِنْ أَهْلِـه ، وَزَوْجَـاً خَـيْراً مِنْ زَوْجِه، وَأَدْخِـلْهُ الْجَـنَّة ، وَأَعِـذْهُ مِنْ عَذابِ القَـبْر وَعَذابِ النّـار

'O Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him and give him strength and pardon him. Be generous to him and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and hail. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Give him an abode better than his home, and a family better than his family and a wife better than his wife. Take him into Paradise and protect him from the punishment of the grave [and from the punishment of Hell-fire].'