Today my Aunt Viola passed away. I was asleep in my bed and my big
son Jovan came into my room with tears in his eyes and told me to wake
up! It was important! One of our cousins called to tell him that Aunty
has died. Jovan turned to leave the room as if he didn't want me to see
him crying, but I called him back only to be at a loss of words. He
asked me what I wanted and I could only shake my head and say "Never
mind." Since the accident on Monday when I suffered my first and I hope,
only concussion, thoughts seem to travel at slow motion through my mind
and this was no different. I knew what I had heard and understood what I
had heard, but the words had not quite settled into my heart, and
therefore I wasn't feeling anything yet. It was as if my soul was
outside my body looking in.
My Aunty was my second mom. As far back as I can remember I knew her and was around her and my counsins. She had four girls and later a son and we all grew up together. I lived with my aunt on several occasions, aside from spending numerous weekends and holidays at her house. She and my mom were very close. They came from a split, abusive family and I think that's why they remained so close right up until my mothers passing several years ago. I always admired my Aunty because she was a strong, smart, kick-ass, hard drinking, hard fighting, gregarious, hard working, God fearing, proud Black woman who led her family with an iron fist until she could not longer be herself. That is a totally different story. In any event, my Aunty was my Shero, (female for hero).I have so many memories of how she was and what she did and the things she would say and the time we spent together and the times we didn't spend together.
Death is a funny thing. If you are the one left behind, it forces you to grapple with the good memories, as well as the regrets. The things you did, the things you wanted to do and the things you should have done, but didn't. How do you fit all that into a lifetime? Its a tall order even for the most ambitious of individuals. Today I am one of many left behind to mourn the loss of my aunt in my own way. I don't like death. I never have. Yes, I am afraid of dying and no, I don't want to die, but I do know that it is inevitable. I was raised initially as a Catholic to believe that when you die you either go to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, which is between Heaven and Hell. If you end up in Purgatory, you have a 50/50 chance of going to Hell or Heaven. Then as I read the Bible more and went to various Black, Hell fire and Brimstone churches, I was taught that if I didn't get saved, I was going to Hell. By the time I was ten, I was a full blown sinner; swearing, smoking, stealing and drinking, so I figured my fate was sealed. Hell here I come. Well my spiritual journey is another story.
I also met Death for the first time, when I was ten. I remember it like it was yesterday. I lived primarily with my Mom on the weekdays and my Dad and his wife and her three kids on the weekends. So one weekend I was at my Dad's and my step brother and I had eaten bread upstairs after being told not to eat upstairs in the bedrooms. I ate mine, he left his. He lied and we both got spankings. My Daddy never spanked me. I was his Princess, his only child, his Little Girl. So that evening I was taking a bath and crying, saying "I hate you!" over and over. My stepmother heard me and came into the bathroom and told me that I should not say such a mean thing. The next day I was still angry with my Dad and left without saying much. That would be the last time I would see him alive. Later that week, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework and the phone rang. I felt a cold, icy wave rush over me. My mother answered it, said Hello, listened and started crying and screaming. I knew it was about my Daddy. He was dead. He had Hotchkins Disease. I did not even know he was sick. My father was my hero. He was a war veteran, an award winning, truck driver and one of the first Black people to own home in the Whitneyville section of Hamden. He drove a sporty, gray Mustang, drank Johnny Walker Red, listened to the best, classic soul music and had a smile that could light up New York City. How could he be dead? I miss my Daddy to his day and would drink and drug over my loss for many years. I felt guilty over being angry with him and saying those cruel words over a piece of bread. I would never get the chance to make that right.
I have been in the company of Death many times since that day and I have come to realize that for those who die, it is final. This is not the time or place to discuss reincarnation or the soul living outside the body, but as far as the person I knew, that person is gone. As someone being left behind to grieve, it is horrible. While this may sound selfish, it is not meant to be, just real. Grief takes many forms and has no statute of limitations. I must find the will to be selfless and share the burden of others pain. I should celebrate the life of the person who passed and let my heart be filled with happy memories of the moments we shared. I can feel relief in knowing that my loved one no longer has to suffer and is hopefully in a better place. I can also be angry and curse God for taking these people from me. I can wallow in my own self pity and grow resentful over my loss. I might even withdraw from the world like a wounded animal and hibernate until I can heal from my injuries. I can lock away my feelings, vowing never to care that much again so that I don't have to feel this way again. I can also realize that I don't determine what I feel or for how long or to what degree, only how I can act upon what I feel. In other words, I have no control over what I feel only what I do with those feelings and that being part of the human race means that I am going to experience these emotions like it or not, until of course, I die.
My Aunty was my second mom. As far back as I can remember I knew her and was around her and my counsins. She had four girls and later a son and we all grew up together. I lived with my aunt on several occasions, aside from spending numerous weekends and holidays at her house. She and my mom were very close. They came from a split, abusive family and I think that's why they remained so close right up until my mothers passing several years ago. I always admired my Aunty because she was a strong, smart, kick-ass, hard drinking, hard fighting, gregarious, hard working, God fearing, proud Black woman who led her family with an iron fist until she could not longer be herself. That is a totally different story. In any event, my Aunty was my Shero, (female for hero).I have so many memories of how she was and what she did and the things she would say and the time we spent together and the times we didn't spend together.
Death is a funny thing. If you are the one left behind, it forces you to grapple with the good memories, as well as the regrets. The things you did, the things you wanted to do and the things you should have done, but didn't. How do you fit all that into a lifetime? Its a tall order even for the most ambitious of individuals. Today I am one of many left behind to mourn the loss of my aunt in my own way. I don't like death. I never have. Yes, I am afraid of dying and no, I don't want to die, but I do know that it is inevitable. I was raised initially as a Catholic to believe that when you die you either go to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, which is between Heaven and Hell. If you end up in Purgatory, you have a 50/50 chance of going to Hell or Heaven. Then as I read the Bible more and went to various Black, Hell fire and Brimstone churches, I was taught that if I didn't get saved, I was going to Hell. By the time I was ten, I was a full blown sinner; swearing, smoking, stealing and drinking, so I figured my fate was sealed. Hell here I come. Well my spiritual journey is another story.
I also met Death for the first time, when I was ten. I remember it like it was yesterday. I lived primarily with my Mom on the weekdays and my Dad and his wife and her three kids on the weekends. So one weekend I was at my Dad's and my step brother and I had eaten bread upstairs after being told not to eat upstairs in the bedrooms. I ate mine, he left his. He lied and we both got spankings. My Daddy never spanked me. I was his Princess, his only child, his Little Girl. So that evening I was taking a bath and crying, saying "I hate you!" over and over. My stepmother heard me and came into the bathroom and told me that I should not say such a mean thing. The next day I was still angry with my Dad and left without saying much. That would be the last time I would see him alive. Later that week, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework and the phone rang. I felt a cold, icy wave rush over me. My mother answered it, said Hello, listened and started crying and screaming. I knew it was about my Daddy. He was dead. He had Hotchkins Disease. I did not even know he was sick. My father was my hero. He was a war veteran, an award winning, truck driver and one of the first Black people to own home in the Whitneyville section of Hamden. He drove a sporty, gray Mustang, drank Johnny Walker Red, listened to the best, classic soul music and had a smile that could light up New York City. How could he be dead? I miss my Daddy to his day and would drink and drug over my loss for many years. I felt guilty over being angry with him and saying those cruel words over a piece of bread. I would never get the chance to make that right.
I have been in the company of Death many times since that day and I have come to realize that for those who die, it is final. This is not the time or place to discuss reincarnation or the soul living outside the body, but as far as the person I knew, that person is gone. As someone being left behind to grieve, it is horrible. While this may sound selfish, it is not meant to be, just real. Grief takes many forms and has no statute of limitations. I must find the will to be selfless and share the burden of others pain. I should celebrate the life of the person who passed and let my heart be filled with happy memories of the moments we shared. I can feel relief in knowing that my loved one no longer has to suffer and is hopefully in a better place. I can also be angry and curse God for taking these people from me. I can wallow in my own self pity and grow resentful over my loss. I might even withdraw from the world like a wounded animal and hibernate until I can heal from my injuries. I can lock away my feelings, vowing never to care that much again so that I don't have to feel this way again. I can also realize that I don't determine what I feel or for how long or to what degree, only how I can act upon what I feel. In other words, I have no control over what I feel only what I do with those feelings and that being part of the human race means that I am going to experience these emotions like it or not, until of course, I die.
