The one where she talks about grief

(I have some new subscribers this week — hello! You can read the first two issues here.)

My youngest cousin just died. He was 29.

I haven’t talked about it much because I don’t know what to say. I don’t want my grief to take up too much space because so many others who loved him feel the loss so much more deeply than I do — his mother, his siblings, his nephews. His life story is not mine to tell.

And deep down, all of us Clarks brace our souls for early deaths such as this. 

My maternal grandmother was 56 when she died. My maternal grandfather was 51. When I was little, I assumed my grandparents were old when they passed away. I never met my grandfather. I don’t remember my grandmother. And the grown ups — my aunt, mom and three uncles — accepted their parents’ absence. I never saw anger or sadness when they told stories about their Mama and Daddy; their voices held reverence and warmth remembering their Mama’s country sayings or their Daddy’s discipline. The grown ups showed me not to dwell on the cruelty of an early grave. Rejoice in the memories and keep moving, because really, what else can you do?

The loss of my grandparents taught their descendants to be strong and unquestioning toward death. We accepted that some of us become ancestors before we become elders. We internalized bad health and early deaths as personal failings — “not taking care of yourself” — while not pointing to the systematic obstacles, generational trauma and hereditary diseases that we as a Black family face.

It wasn’t until my mother reached the birthdays her parents would never see that I grasped just how young they were when they died. And I became angry. I missed the relationships I never had with my grandparents. I feel their absence even though I didn’t know them, especially that of my grandmother. I never had a matriarch to turn to for wisdom. I didn’t have an elder praying for my safety and success. And I never had the love of a woman who birthed the woman who birthed me.

Yet death still comes for us, as it does for everyone.

My youngest uncle, my late cousin’s dad, died six years ago. He didn’t make it to 50. And now his youngest son is gone.

I don’t know how to hold these losses. I don’t know what lessons I’m supposed to gain after putting these men, my own blood, to rest. And there’s a somber resignation to the fact that this is how things go for us.

I had a birthday a few days after my cousin died. I spent time with friends the weekend before the big day, one night watching a Pedro Almodóvar double feature, the next dolled up for a fancy dinner. My mom fixed some of my favorite foods (macaroni and cheese, deviled eggs) and made a birthday cake (hummingbird with cream cheese icing) for Sunday family dinner. And my best friend and I went to the Cheesecake Factory on the big day, where our waitress Shirley let us catch up for hours (and brought me not one, but TWO desserts with candles).

I was thankful to make it to another year. Because I didn’t always see my own future.

When I was in my early 20s, I couldn’t envision a life too far ahead because for a good portion of that time, I didn’t want to live too far ahead. I had sporadically treated depression. There were days when it was a struggle to get through 24 hours. 

I had broad assumptions of what my life was supposed to look like in the years to come — marriage, kids, house, progressively important roles at newspapers. But I never painted in the little details of that narrative because I thought I would be gone before any of the broad strokes could come true. Some of that nihilism came from the familiarity in early deaths in the family. Most of it was the depression. I was ready to be gone.

One day, I’ll write about that depression and its scary depths and how close I came to welcoming the loss of my own life. But not today.

Instead, I want to talk about life on the other side of that, how each year has become a celebration. I love getting older because I never thought I would. And this year, I celebrated in honor of my cousin and the life he didn’t get to live.

I am 38 years old. When my late uncle was this age, he only had about 10 more years to live. For my grandparents, half their lives were already over at 38. So I celebrate to honor them, too.

I want to find a balance between accepting the inevitability of death and breaking generational curses. I want to hold the grief and anger I feel toward losing my relatives alongside the joy that their memories bring. But most of all, I just want to live a full and joyful life.