A year of quiet mourning

“You Cannot Soft Launch Grief”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this since I saw it a few days ago on Tobe Ugeh’s story.

Maybe because a part of me thought it was actually possible to soft launch grief.

And maybe the real reason is because I couldn’t think about it without crying.

I lost someone I really loved.

I don’t always feel unconditional love for a lot of people, and to be very honest, I feel like the love I have for some people in my family is conditional. 

He wasn’t family, and I still loved him very much.

When I love someone, I think they’re special because I’m usually always in love with something about them.

And in his case, I loved how he made me feel like his first daughter.

I loved the calmness that came with his love for me—It was the love that said “I’m always here for you.”

And what was more special was that he loved how I loved him,

and I’m sure at some point, he thought I was his princess too.

Just as I am right now—just without the tears—almost a year ago,

I got the news that my “unbiological” dad had passed.

In almost two decades I’ve spent on the surface of this earth,

nothing has broken me the way that news did.

I had thought I knew sadness until grief introduced itself with no warning,

and I felt my world freeze.

Not only because he died and I was the last to know about it,

but also because I was angry at myself.

Throughout the week before he died, I was going to text him, as I always did,

but I kept postponing it till the weekend.

And when the weekend came, I felt the need to text him after I observed Asr on that Sunday,

but I ignored it.

My sister texted me on Tuesday night and told me he passed on Sunday night.

What made it worse was that everyone else had already cried a little.

And I was just getting started with the heaviest part.

They thought I wouldn’t handle the news well in school, because I was his favorite.

But my sister couldn’t keep it from me.

So I couldn’t cry about it to anyone.

I was mourning in silence, and I don’t know what is worse than that.

My mom called me the next day, and despite my swollen eyes, shaky hands, and trembling voice,

I had to be casual so she wouldn’t hear the emptiness behind my words.

I went on Safari to find my way to Facebook and searched his name, even on Google.

Just to see if there was anything about his death, so I could call my mom to cry

and tell her that was how I found out.

But it was dry. I didn’t find anything.

I cried for two days straight, and I only stopped because my friend came to my room.

I could only speak a little about it to one person.

I think God sent her so I wouldn’t completely lose it because she asked if I was genuinely okay.

And you’re never genuinely okay when you’re carrying that much weight in your heart.

She told me to cry if I wanted to.

And I did.

I cried under my blanket at night so my roommates wouldn’t find out.

What I really wanted was to scream.

To tell everyone how wonderful he was.

How this was the first time I lost someone I loved outside of family.

It was hard to comprehend because he was a very agile man.

So full of life and really the funniest man.

He loved a good Fuji song—especially the loud ones that felt like they were speaking to him.

He was really tall, I used to wonder how it must have felt  to be that tall.

I always thought Mushin was a crazy place until he came into my life.

Since then, each time I heard Mushin, I thought about him because I really enjoyed going to his office.

One of the times I went to greet him at his office,

he sent someone to get me shawarma after I said no to eating anything,I think I was shy.

I had also just started eating shawarma and to be honest,

I remember saying that was the best shawarma I had ever had.

And I don’t know if it was because it was from him,

or because I really meant it.

It was harder because this person was never sick.

Even imagining him weak just before he passed actually made me physically unwell.

When my mom told me after I got home, I told her I already knew and how much I had struggled.

I showed her my first grief letter,

because oftentimes, when I can’t express how I feel, I write about it.

She couldn’t hold back her tears because she knew how much I loved him.

She also knows what it means for me to love someone genuinely.

I cried with her. I never cry in front of anyone, 

not even my mom.

But in that moment, there was no strength left to stay composed.

The princess had lost her king.

I also feel like God knows I loved him too much,

and He wanted me to tell him goodbye

but I didn’t take the signs that week.

I still beat myself up about it.

And I honestly really miss him.

Subconsciously, I think about him every day.

He passed one year ago—today.

And it scares me that as time goes by, I might forget to think about him.

Or maybe when I do, I won’t feel anything.

Every time I’ve thought about him for almost a year,

it always or almost brought tears to my eyes.

I never really spoke about it. I only did to myself.

I’m not sure why.

Maybe it’s because I was the closest to him,

and my siblings weren’t as fond of him as I was.

So I didn’t want to make it seem like I was playing the “mourning girl” card

because I was the only one who understood how I saw him,

and what his sudden death did to me.

Or maybe that’s a lie.

Maybe I was just scared of crashing out

about someone no one else thinks about every day.

Now I’m speaking about it.

And to be fair, it’s not that bad.

(I paused to wipe my tears like five times.)

I feel better,

and I think this is how I was afraid of feeling.

I saw a piece that says:

“Grief is love’s souvenir.

It’s our proof that we once loved.

Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world:

Look! Love was once mine. I loved well.

Here is my proof that I paid the price.”

So yes,

I loved him.

And here’s my proof that I paid the price.

Please say a prayer for him.

May Allah forgive him, have mercy on him, expand his grave, and grant him Jannah.

Ameen.

~Hadiqah.O