It’s going to be two years.
The weather is exactly the same – or at least feels like it. The spaces have been inhabited. The places that reminded are now revisited, unconsciously gotten over. The songs are still sung, almost always with the vain hope that an additional, unforgettable, and now forever unheard voice will join in. The tears in sleep are still shed. The dreams of a life continued are still woken up to. The conversations are still had but now they are prayers; prayers rooted in the faith that there is strength emanating from above beyond what could have ever been humanly possible.
I still go back to my father’s often unspoken values and principles to guide me in life – in my career choices, in my respect, love and protection for my mother, in my belief in unconditional love through its lowest and highest points, in my intuition, and in my conviction to be myself and that is, the best version of myself, and also to let go sometimes, because even the strongest and bravest man I know was not afraid to be vulnerable, not afraid to be a child and want to be taken care of, not afraid to show his heartbreak and his heart’s triumphs.
And of course, the memory of that day is preserved – a “gloomy Sunday”, like the song he used to listen to. But a day that must be remembered, because that day defined the end of an earthly relationship and the beginning of one that transcends.
And Shinie Antony wrote this piece that touches on the memory of such a day, and the days that preceded it and the beginning of the altered state of introspection that all those who face loss begin to live with. Grief is a dark place, an unwanted visit. It eventually becomes a place of love and faith. It is in a way, a continuance of the lost person’s life, as their presence in us will carry on as long as we live. Loss brings questions. But it also brings realness – we know that we are alive because we have loved and lost. And we must be proud of the bravery we possess in daring to live on.
