The family buried my cousin this weekend. Everything about the memorial was perfect. The location, the music, the headstone, the burial, the words spoken and even the ones not for I did not speak. All perfect.
I will be honest. I wasn’t there for the entire service. As a family friend led the memorial and Kisa played the music I tuned them out. I stood watching the mountainside in front of me and the hawks soar above me. I concentrated on the ants colonizing at my feet and the clouds crawling over my head. I heard the music as if underwater, the memorial as if in another room. I knew that if I paid attention I would hear my heart breaking all over again and that in doing so I would cry. Not the muted, polite tears of someone who is simply sad. My grief would be loud and sobbing; disgustingly messy and uncontrollable. It would seem disproportionate to the solemn sadness of the rest of the mourners. They, except for a sparse few, didn’t utter a sound either.
I stayed underwater until an aunt made me surface. Her quick hug took me by surprise. The service wasn’t over. She was seated with the mourners. I wasn’t. I stood offside, practically behind someone’s GMC truck. She had to dart from her seat to get to me. Her hug woke me up to pain, heartache, loss and I lost it.
I wasn’t asked to speak a few words about my cousin. For that, I am glad. Sort of. I have things to say. Not to those who survived him but to him; he who lost his life. Maybe I will write them here. My sorrow cannot stay silent.