And if Im honest, I am there now.
No matter how peacefully someone slips away, death is a violent interruption for the rest of us.
Shifting into new identities and releasing shared dreams is disconcerting.
I have been grieving for the past five years.
My life transformed after the death of one of my dearest friends.
In the aftermath, I slipped into isolation that hardened my free spirit.
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I started writing my first book,Self-Care for Grief, armed with wisdom from what helped me cope.
Butloss kept comingagainst the backdrop of a global pandemic that has claimed millions of lives around the world.
Black death engulfed me, both from police brutality and the virus.
Loved ones slipped away as new statistics were released.
In a perpetual state of mourning, my life morphed into something I couldnt recognize.
Then, weeks into writing my book, one of my favorite Aunties died.
She lived in London with her family, and traveling didnt seem safe.
Rituals and rites of passage help us metabolize loss.
Even now, her death doesnt seem real.
Id moved back weeks earlier and was sleeping upstairs.
Slumped in a chair, he looked serene: like he was simply too tired to move.
His head was lifted toward the sky, and his eyes closed tight.
His hands hung heavily at his sides as if surrendering to God.
It almost seemed like he was napping in a universe far from here.
Its Amazing How Its All Connected.
From a guttural, spiritual place, you wish like hell to return to the past.
One last phone call.
There is never enough time.
But there is travel.
There is a pilgrimage to honor those who are no longer with us.
There is selecting clothes, folding items, and making arrangements.
The same way a better life moves folks elsewhere, death brings people back home.
I watched a sunset in Puerto Rico while feasting on mofongo, as reggaeton pulsated like a heartbeat.
In the throes of grief, Ive found reminders that there is still life and beauty.
Travel has constantly revived me, but Black folks have always combined travel with honoring the dead.
Movementboth forced and voluntaryis a collective experience within our culture.The Great Migrationis one of many historical examples.
Gathering families, belongings, and lives painstakingly built, generations of Black folks traveled away.
In essence, they were refugees of the South.
The same way a better life moves people elsewhere, death brings people back home.
For over thirty years, Black people usedThe Green Book for many reasons bereavement travel was likely one.
Families could plot their route, journeying during the daylight hours.
They could pack adequate food or stop selectively, so they didnt pull over somewhere unsafe.
Even in the face of danger, we moved, migrated, and showed up.
We braved unfamiliar roads to find comfort in the community, too.
Maybe thats a reason Black folks call funerals homegoings.
In the last few years, the pandemic has complicated our bereavement rituals while exacerbating our grief.
Yet,amidst pandemic lockdowns, we masked up and pounded the pavement to protect and honor Black lives.
Movement, near or farby train, plane, car, or footis a ritual.
For so many Black folks, we do what we can to be there.
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