Drown

My Papa is dead. Perhaps in saying it, I will begin to believe it. Perhaps in receiving as many messages of condolence, the reality will begin to dawn on me. Me, yes, me—this thing has happened to me. And yet it is not about me at all. It is about my father, who has lost his father. It is about his brothers and sisters who have lost their father. I have only the merest traces of memories: of sports coats and elbow patches, and a laugh, he always seemed to be laughing when he looked at us.
But this thing I am feeling is real. When I have begun to laugh at a silly joke, a great black cloud has hovered in front of my eye. You have no right to laugh, it accuses. Your Papa is dead, is dead. I came home yesterday to find my suite filled with friends come to celebrate Friday…the beginning of spring break… How could I say to them—go away, I have a need to be sad? Did I convince them or did I convince myself…when I laughed harder, played harder, taunted…with an almost sharp metallic edge?
Yesterday morning, as I sat on the bus on the ride into Manhattan, I looked out of the window, and all was grey. We went past a large cemetery, and every building after that seemed to rise up like some sort of specter. Like great marble heads reading Rest in Peace…
In the darkness, the sadness is real, and it traces warm liquid down the length of your cheeks.
Papa’s funeral was today. They bury him in Busia tomorrow.
They say people always need some kind of closure. That there is a need to stand by that grave and beat your chest, and scream out your anguish…
I’ll just pray that Daddy really is alright, even if he is trying with blustering confidence to be strong for the rest of us.
And I’ll drown this black thing with Heineken. Lots and lots of Heineken.