Grief is not linear. It's not pretty or sexy or pleasant or anything I want to embody willingly. Ever.

But here I am, 29 years young, and deeply grieving. I just had a monumental birthday during the most pitiful Cancer season ever. This birthday was spent without a Mother due the sudden and very tragic passing of my Momma about a month and a half ago- in the middle of a goddamn world pandemic.

Atop communal and cumulative grief, I now have a deep wound I have to heal from my Mother's early and unprecedented death. And I'm fucking terrified about this process.

I have never had to grieve the loss of a loved one who was either this close or this unexpected. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone.

Daily, I undulate between profound sadness and rage- two islands that are my homes now, I've accepted it. Both are fraught with manic episodes of debilitating depression that manifest into physically not being able to move and multiple crying spells; brought on by things like watching Beyonce's "Black is King" and knowing my Mom would've loved it. Would have loved, not "loves".

I still can't really talk about her in the past tense.

I'm writing from a chokehold of somewhat high-functioning depression that allows me to go through the motions of ‘adulting’ while still needing (yes, needing) hour-long conversations with myself each morning about if I should get out of bed at all and if so, why. 9 out of 10 times, I get up only because my dog needs to pee.

I am doing all of the prescribed things: checking in with friends & loved ones regularly, consulting licensed mental health professionals, resuming projects, getting back into group counseling and trying my damndest to not fall into a pit of total despair, eating when I remember and sleeping truly whenever I can. I’m reaching out to my family (biological and chosen) now more than ever because losing touch cannot be another item checked off 2020's list.

Grief, bereavement, mourning- call it what you will, but it doesn't make sense and I sure as hell can't make it any clearer while I'm in the middle of it. Here's the best I can do at making my thoughts string together into sometimes sentences via notes that I've written to myself over the last few weeks. (Weeks 1-2 were spent being an abysmal mess, and are omitted.)

Week 3:

Grief is a funny thing.

I’d never really met it until now.

It sweeps you up, turns you every which way, summersaulting sadness.

Grief bruises you to the bone and cracks your heart into a cavern, miles deep.

It winds you up, chews your empathy raw and spits you out- miles away from where you began.

Ahead or behind yourself, you choose.

My Mom left us on 6.27. Her father in law’s birthday; he was a fraternal twin- like my brother and I.

We’re the twins my mom fought so hard to keep & birth prematurely after a miscarriage 5 years prior.

She was only 60 when she left. Not young, but certainly not old by any measure.

She wasn’t sick. She had no chronic ailments. She was healthy & not a risk-taker in the least.

She stayed inside and at home to avoid what’s ravaging our world right now- especially for people of color.

But it was her time. So she left swiftly on the wings of a Pulmonary Embolism- something no one could have caught or predicted.

We gathered as much as we could, my family. We communed & cried ceremoniously in a small batch of 10- arms outstretched in phantom embrace. Sanitizing our own tears.

We gave her the best send-off we could manage, given the circumstances.

She was proud to see us dressed boldly in bright colors- a testament to her bright life.

I turned 29 just 3 weeks & 1 day after this devastating loss. Saturn’s Return feels full of half-held gifts.

I don’t know how to write my next chapter without my Mom in it.

I don’t know how to find joy or peace anymore- we are estranged.

I don’t know how to fight the flood of tears whenever I talk about her.

I don’t know how to trust that life won’t cruelly take another person from me when I’m not ready.

I don’t know more than I know right now.

I don’t know how to heal from this. But I will have to try. For her and for myself.

I love you, Mommy. You’re with us every day.

Week 4:

I went home to Texas and stayed a few days after the funeral services to just be near her- well, where she had been for so long. My Grandmother's home was now my parents’- a lovely remodel project they were embarking on since early 2020. My mom had taken the communal bathroom as her space to decorate and occupy all of the drawers with her things only. It had not been touched since she died.

As I rifle through my Mother's things (not looking for anything in particular, only taking in small whiffs of her makeup & toiletries and memories therein) it brings me back to Saturdays spent doing the same as a child well into my teens. I was "way too young for makeup", but I always enjoyed a good rummage through her powders, beauty creams, and finding the occasional "nice" item that I could use just a sprig of— enough to get an idea, but not so much that it would look used. Like this act somehow brought me nearer to womanhood.

So there I stood for much longer than a moment, digging through items I would've gladly pilfered at 11. Mom would later accept that she had simply 'lost' these things. I think she knew. She'd take this small transgression over me sneaking out of the house any day.

As a grown woman I was still getting lost down a rabbit hole of half-used Yves St. Laurent (her "good concealer"), that she swears changed the formula years ago and "hasn't been the same since". Loyal, even after misgiving.

I go to the second drawer- hair things. Of which a Black woman has PLENTY.  I immediately spy her old ivory bristle brush, the very same one she used as a girl. Full with tangled & silky, jet-black hair, and a few grays she'd embraced in Quarantine. I pick it up and fragrant hair products waft from it like a wand. It’s almost too fresh for the sensory overload. I place it down just as quickly- delicately. This is the brush she'd never let me borrow to take to sleepovers for fear of me "losing it". Anyone else would see this as junk; bristles broken, practically gray with product stains and lint caked in deep, but resilient.

I place this treasure softly back where I found it. Arranging it just so... so that when she comes back it will be exactly like she left it. In the same thought I have two competing realizations; one- this nearly obsessive habit is no-doubt from years of secret Mom’s-makeup-drawer treasure hunts, and two- my Mom isn't coming back.

I catch the thought welled up in my throat and swallow it back down. Full tears streaming in it's place, "She's not coming back". I let it settle there.

I remember when I heard the news from Dad, “Arielle… your Mother passed this morning.” — i shattered. i cried. i screamed. i tried to wish it away.

One of the first things I remember doing after the shock was going to the mirror. I looked at my steamy, red face trying to cling to whatever looked like hers (because a deep fear of mine is forgetting what my loved ones look like). 

My eyes, like her big almond eyes. My lips that were never quite as full as hers. And my freckles that will surely turn into moles- just like Mom’s. Still there. Still memorable.

I can't quite piece it together when the dysphoria sets in that I won’t see her face again in-person to compare.

Week 5:

Mommy, I miss you. I really do.

I see you in everything I do. I rest my hand on my hip like you.

When I get angry, I can hear you in the aftershock of my harsh words. True words, but harsh ones nonetheless.

I have a penchant for righting wrongs and an intolerance for bullshit, like you.

I hear you in my cackle— an unashamed, high-pitched, Black Lady laugh that shakes a room and turns heads. You never cared and neither do I.

I see you in my hair; my auburn coiled locks that you so desperately tried to achieve with a ruddy dye-job to your afro in the late ‘70’s. You were blessed with nearly red-headed children for such efforts, I think.

I love people like you do; with equal parts open heart and discretionary judgement. Like you found out from far too young an age that most people will disappoint you— so you stopped seeking their love, and instead sought their respect. You wouldn't stand for less. Love would come later.

I hold grudges with my neck. just. like. you.

How long can I hold a grudge against god?

Week 6:

I’m happy I kept the few voicemails of my Mom that I do have.

I replay them on walks that I am making myself take. Every night. For at least 1 hour. Gotta find a reason to get out of bed (and stay out of bed).

Forgetting a face is one thing- we have photos for that. But a Mother’s voice melts your heart into pulp. Yet, it seems like the first thing to leave your memory bank.

I replay these love notes from another dimension over & over on my "me time" walks. My reactions vary from anguish to laughter for bouts of 7 seconds, "Hey Arielle, it’s Mommy (chipper maternal voice). Just calling to check on you! Luv you. (click)". She pronounces "luv" with every bit of a country ass ´u’.

I wish I’d had more.

I realized that the reason I have so little voicemails is because I always answered her calls.

And she always called.

Once an annoyance. Now a treasure.

One of our last long-winded conversations that I did manage to have with my Mom consisted of her raving (again) about my ex-boyfriend from over a year ago. She loved him before I did.

She'd said things like, "Oh, Arielle, you don't think you'll ever get back together?"

Me, fighting an internal scream, "No, Mom. We just want different things. I don't think it'll EVER happen so I don't see the point in talking to him. I don't think he's a bad person. It just didn't work out."

My mom cooed, "Aww okay. Y'all were just so in love and really happy together, seemed like."

In hindsight, I just think she wanted someone to love me as much as she did.

I hope she gets her wish.