social introspection
Tears
Hey all, I've been asked to write, so I am sharing a short piece that I wrote about my beloved grandmother who passed two years ago (I miss her dearly). It's part of a longer piece, but thought i would share this little bit. Please feel free to comment. Peace and Love
Tears by Yona Deshommes (Iyawo Oshun)
I have yet to shed a tear. It’s been 1 year, 247 days, 22 hours, 45 minutes since I felt her spirit travel through me as I sat through a head rogation--its sacred and ritualistic purpose, to cool my head. To calm my agitated spirit. I can still smell the cocoa butter and the fresh coconut water and feel the softness of the raw cotton as it was placed on my crown chakra. I needed the calming. I needed peace. It was time. Though Gran and I were physically separated by thousands of miles and a vast ocean, I felt the final separation of the spirit with mine; the circuit broken. I remember breathing in deeply as if I wanted to take the remnants of the fleeting energy into myself, knowing that I could never sustain that breath. Yet and still, I did not shed a tear.
I traveled to her homeland, our homeland--the country side of Jacmel called Cap Rouj--to bury her. A place where the earth was the deep, rich color of red clay. She would often say that the redness of the earth was the result of the bloodshed during the revolution. The sacrifice of human and animal life had been accepted by the deities that protected the Haitian people and their land. The blood, absorbed by the land, became one with it and the rich redness that we see is a reflection, a reminder of the distant past.
She would often describe the place of her birth to me as I bathed her. No longer able to bathe alone, bath time became a ritual. It was our time to bond, to talk, to laugh, to sometimes cry, but more importantly, it was the time for me to listen and learn. It was during those times that our family history would unfold and time would seem to slow down. Gran had a way of weaving a story into an amazing tapestry that I could watch and listen to for hours. But on the last day before she departed for Haiti where she would spend her last remaining days, her demeanor was different.
As I placed her on her shower chair and prepared her for her bath, she looked up at me and said, Se dernier separasion en, eh? I, not completely understanding what she was asking or rather not wanting to understand said, Gran, what separation? You know that I will come and see you in Haiti. I’m only a plane ride away.” I knew what she meant then as I do now, but I didn’t want to think that this was indeed the final separation. I would see her again. I was not ready for her to leave me forever. I didn’t want to think about it. I made some off comment in an effort to make her laugh, but then that lone tear streamed down her left eye. It was followed by another and another until she was weeping uncontrollably. Gran was never one for tears unless it was during one of those moments when she wanted to be a drama queen. This was different. Without her saying a word, I understood the source of her tears. She not only was departing from me, her grand daughter, caretaker, friend, sometimes enemy, and confidant. She was departing from the various parts of her life that caused her pain.
On that day that would be our last. Together. In the shower. On the chair where she sat as I bathed her, the water steaming from the shower head beating against her frail body. She cried. She cried for the body that betrayed her. This woman of very independent means, relegated to doing everything with assistance. She cried for the friends who said they would visit on Sundays; Sunday upon Sunday, no one came. She cried for her only child, a son, who in his denial about her deteriorating condition would not, could not tend to her needs and would often avoid having any contact with her, though they lived in the same house. A home separated with a line of shame, guilt and embarrassment; a line only to be crossed by me. She cried for the wedding she would never attend and the great grand children that she would never bounce on her knee. She cried for the education that she did not receive, the lessons not learned, and the wisdom that she would not impart. She cried for me. She released a lifetime of grief that day. And I did not shed a single tear.
Tears by Yona Deshommes (Iyawo Oshun)
I have yet to shed a tear. It’s been 1 year, 247 days, 22 hours, 45 minutes since I felt her spirit travel through me as I sat through a head rogation--its sacred and ritualistic purpose, to cool my head. To calm my agitated spirit. I can still smell the cocoa butter and the fresh coconut water and feel the softness of the raw cotton as it was placed on my crown chakra. I needed the calming. I needed peace. It was time. Though Gran and I were physically separated by thousands of miles and a vast ocean, I felt the final separation of the spirit with mine; the circuit broken. I remember breathing in deeply as if I wanted to take the remnants of the fleeting energy into myself, knowing that I could never sustain that breath. Yet and still, I did not shed a tear.
I traveled to her homeland, our homeland--the country side of Jacmel called Cap Rouj--to bury her. A place where the earth was the deep, rich color of red clay. She would often say that the redness of the earth was the result of the bloodshed during the revolution. The sacrifice of human and animal life had been accepted by the deities that protected the Haitian people and their land. The blood, absorbed by the land, became one with it and the rich redness that we see is a reflection, a reminder of the distant past.
She would often describe the place of her birth to me as I bathed her. No longer able to bathe alone, bath time became a ritual. It was our time to bond, to talk, to laugh, to sometimes cry, but more importantly, it was the time for me to listen and learn. It was during those times that our family history would unfold and time would seem to slow down. Gran had a way of weaving a story into an amazing tapestry that I could watch and listen to for hours. But on the last day before she departed for Haiti where she would spend her last remaining days, her demeanor was different.
As I placed her on her shower chair and prepared her for her bath, she looked up at me and said, Se dernier separasion en, eh? I, not completely understanding what she was asking or rather not wanting to understand said, Gran, what separation? You know that I will come and see you in Haiti. I’m only a plane ride away.” I knew what she meant then as I do now, but I didn’t want to think that this was indeed the final separation. I would see her again. I was not ready for her to leave me forever. I didn’t want to think about it. I made some off comment in an effort to make her laugh, but then that lone tear streamed down her left eye. It was followed by another and another until she was weeping uncontrollably. Gran was never one for tears unless it was during one of those moments when she wanted to be a drama queen. This was different. Without her saying a word, I understood the source of her tears. She not only was departing from me, her grand daughter, caretaker, friend, sometimes enemy, and confidant. She was departing from the various parts of her life that caused her pain.
On that day that would be our last. Together. In the shower. On the chair where she sat as I bathed her, the water steaming from the shower head beating against her frail body. She cried. She cried for the body that betrayed her. This woman of very independent means, relegated to doing everything with assistance. She cried for the friends who said they would visit on Sundays; Sunday upon Sunday, no one came. She cried for her only child, a son, who in his denial about her deteriorating condition would not, could not tend to her needs and would often avoid having any contact with her, though they lived in the same house. A home separated with a line of shame, guilt and embarrassment; a line only to be crossed by me. She cried for the wedding she would never attend and the great grand children that she would never bounce on her knee. She cried for the education that she did not receive, the lessons not learned, and the wisdom that she would not impart. She cried for me. She released a lifetime of grief that day. And I did not shed a single tear.
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