It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death–ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. - James Baldwin
When my mom FaceTimed me, I could see the outline of my cousin Brian’s slender frame near the base of the enormous, brittle-brown shading birch tree in our cousins’ yard. My mind racing, I attempted to manifest restoration telepathically. He’s going to push through this. EMS workers heartily joked with one another as they lifted his broken body onto a stretcher. He’ll be okay, right? They can’t be that entertained by each other–so he must be ok. Right?
Even while praying, I felt overcome by the dread of what would happen next.
Two weeks after Brian’s fatal motorbike accident, my paternal grandfather, Grandaddy Bub passed away.
Nine months later, my baby cousin Slick, died in a motorcycle accident.
Twenty months later, our beloved matriarch, Grandma Alphair passed away quietly.
Two months later, after a prolonged illness, Aunt Keta’s fiance Uncle Terrell passed away.
Just under three months later, my mom’s partner of over twenty years, Clarence, died unexpectedly.
The close compression of death surrounded and confronted me. My family had experienced tragedy before, but not in such proximity; one after the other, these past three years.
We call death senseless, saying that it takes away, but its presence even when unexpected can be an unwelcome gift.
Death clarifies and magnifies life.
It makes you protective of how you spend your time.
Death grants you an awareness of the finitude of your existence.
It is brutal–but clarifying.
In the axis-disorienting shift that saw familial death and tragedy, in these low moments that bowled me over and brought me to my knees, I thought of memories–truths to keep me standing still:
Hanging with my big cousin Brian as a child. He was the cool high schooler who would ride me around in his immaculate red truck, letting me eat hot Hardee’s french fries in the passenger side, while Uncle Luke and the 2Live Crew chanted, encouraging regular female pops, of the personal variety–truck doors rattling from the bass;
Granddaddy Bub, named Joe Louis after the boxer, a tall and thrifty man–full of witticisms and wisdom–teasing me about spending an eternity on the porch waiting for me after I said I’d be there, ought-amount of hours ago;
My sweet and funny youngest cousin Slick–who was essentially my baby brother–imitating Uncle Casey’s baritone, or lilting his voice to sound like Grandma, moving his arms and legs to fully tell a hilarious story;
My beautiful Grandmother Alphair died as she lived, surrounded by her children and grandchildren in her room, in her chair, in the house where she prepared Sunday delicacies and homemade biscuits; where she hemmed, washed, and hung clothes on the line; and where she taught us the value of hard work, love, and care in the everyday tasks she assigned us: dumping slop buckets, chopping wood, raking leaves, washing dishes, cooking, ironing, and sewing, all with love and laughter and music in between.
Uncle T, and his earnestness, every time he talked to you, emanating love and care in a gift for the kids, a retelling of a story, an admonition to visit Aunt Keta and him more frequently–guiltless yet sincere;
My mother’s love, her dear Clarence, was someone you would want to care for your mother’s heart, a grillmaster to rival any, and always present at our family gatherings–birthdays, funerals, and everything in between.
The memories of my loved ones reminded me that I had to value the moment to have the memory. To spend my life as I chose. To exist for myself and my loved ones first. To put my mask on first.
I’d lost time, trying to squeeze in everything except for what I increasingly felt myself becoming. And death reminded me that I did not have time to waste.
It can be scary facing death, in my case, worrying for my children and contemplating their existence without me–did I create enough moments and memories for them?
It’ll never be enough.
Confronting this truth was a jolt to reality. This has to matter. The journey of my mortal existence has to mean and have been worth something.
A realization–I’m in this world to take care of myself and my babies and give care to those closest to me. I could give, and give in love to others, but not to create an unsustainable overwhelm. Not to engage in an endless spiral of responding to other people’s needs, following their expectations, and discounting my own.
Death clarifies purpose and forces those who are left behind to construe meaning.
When loved ones leave us, one of our central laments is that we didn’t have enough time with them, it didn’t last as long as we needed it to, and they were supposed to be here longer.
And we believe it to be true.
In many ways it is. The core of what we feel though, is loss.
Unspoken words.
Untaken trips.
Chances not taken.
Memories not created.
And this had nothing to do with the years they were here. While they were still with us we admit that we spent some of that time fruitlessly.
This is what guts me; not that I couldn’t optimize every single moment heretofore lived, but that my quest to serve others first, my chasing career paths I know I didn’t want, my service to others that eroded my duty to self –caused me to fill my time with activities, career pursuits, and people that didn’t feed my soul.
I shrouded myself in notions of service and selflessness, busyness and monotony, and the hope of pivoting to a career that would bring more opportunity: trying to switch from a career I was tired of, to one I didn’t want.
Then, I had the crystal-sparkling clarity that death provides.
“I want to see how life can triumph.” - Romare Bearden
There are more bright moments than I give myself credit for; where I chose love and moments with loved ones, and remade them into memories:
Working for weeks on an acreage research project in Dorchester County for a Black land retention nonprofit in the summer of 2009, where I took the slightly longer route to pass through Highway 6 and stop and sit with my paternal grandmother. I’d joke with Granny Freeze that my future husband would be so old that she’d have to call him sir. It tickled her so. I’m so grateful to the younger me for spending that time, not knowing that she would be gone by the fall of the following year.
Laughing with my cousin Bradley when he asked me why my aunt, his mom, always mispronounced my name. A bowling night with almost all of the first cousins, including too-cool Bradley, hanging out, us mostly failing to knock over pins, laughing together, and an afterparty in Grandma’s den; eating chocolate chip cookies and creating memories— pictures as a testament—the year before he was murdered.
Emailing and talking to Brian, getting his book recommendations, and mailing books to him with notes of love and encouragement. Fits and starts over the years of looking into his case, pulling case law and governing statutes, and trying to figure out a way.
My mom coordinating with Aunt Meka for my oldest son’s visit one summer. My little guy got to sing and talk Granddaddy Bub’s ear off. They watched game shows together and he was in awe for weeks after about shows where they gave big people prizes.
Talking to Slick about chasing meaning and joy in life and discussing entrepreneurship. I remember later, in Grandma’s backyard, talking about how he would drudge forward now after our big cousin Brian’s death, not knowing he would be dead nine months later.
I’m grateful I spent half of summer 2021 at my mom’s house with my kids, Grandma Alphair’s last good summer. Sitting with her on the porch, talking about old times and older wounds. Laughing at her feistiness earlier in life and her wisdom later. Her sharp wit, a covering that kept her so that she could eventually beget my mother and her siblings, who begat me, my brother, and my cousins, and us fostering the next generation, all with seeds of her.
Sometimes when my intuition led me to do something, I followed it. Now those moments serve as a balm to my soul. They remind me that I didn’t always foolishly give my time away. I listened to soul nudges and was rewarded with memories I hold dear.
These reflections give me clarity and sometimes peace, knowing that my years of misguided servant leadership above all else, my being on autopilot, and my surrendering to time inertia was a choice. Now, in love, in pursuit of moments and recreations of memories, I choose wisely.
This is a beautiful piece, Dekera. And words fail me in trying to capture all that it's given me while reading it. Your voice comes through effortlessly and originally. I feel this is an essay I will come back to many times. Thank you for writing it.
Lyrical and poignant. Thank you for posting!