I couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Instead, I stood next to the coffin with my siblings and talked about a man. My grandfather. I had written a short eulogy titled “Things My Grandfather Taught Me.”  In my nervous stupor, I crumbled it up and spoke from the heart. My sister and mother looked at me nervously. I was the soft one, mama had always claimed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

My grief came as I stepped away from the podium. It washed over me like a wave, bringing the tears. 

I don’t remember what I had said as I stood next to the coffin. I only know it was about my grandfather and how much I loved him. 

They say I spoke eloquently.

7. The Day: Three Weeks After

I am a stickler for routine. Three weeks after my grandfather’s burial I found myself missing life’s everyday patterns. How each morning my newborn and I had walked to his room to kiss him good morning before beginning the rest of my day. That’s what I had done the day he died; except my daughter had still been sleeping, so only I went to his room. I found my mother’s aunt sitting next to him. 

It was his eyes. I should have known that was a sign. He looked directly at me and smiled. That rarely happened. His eyes were clear and blue, like how the ocean must be up-close. 

I miss the simple things, cooking porridge for three: Papa, Mangwane and me. I miss how after a hectic week at school I would look forward to the long bus ride home to see him. I miss knowing not to forget to make him fish or chicken or anything but red meat because of his gout. I miss last year, when my hormonal-self had yelled at my little sister for frying some sausages which had triggered my nausea. How yelling had resulted in crying. I had gone to Papa’s bedroom and laid next to him. He had smiled and held my hand. Calmness came. 

8. Today 

It is a month after The Day. I have sat down to type this essay many times. Each time I have come up with excuses as to why I can’t possibly write: a crying baby, laptop not starting up quickly enough, rain — I can never find the words when it is raining. But my sentimentality and fear of forgetting have me here, keyboard clattering away, tears streaming down my face, while my almost four-month-old baby naps next to me. My biggest fear is forgetting his voice, his smile. Forgetting him. I try avoiding it by speaking about him often with my mother and my siblings. We all seem to fear the same thing. Thus, they talk about him too: “Remember when Papa bought us candy on the way to the cattle post?”

“Papa loved his oats with honey.”

“Today I was looking at photos from last Christmas. Remember how Papa’s Secret Santa got him that pyjamas set?”

Thus, now we grieve with memories.