I have heard that in Islam, we are told to mourn the dead for three days.
I am not in mourning anymore.
I wear colorful clothes as always. I started wearing all the jewelry I used to love wearing before – ring, toe ring, nose ring. I make plans for the future, the future that doesn’t hold you. I can listen to all the songs that once reminded me of you without tearing up. I can call your mother and have coherent conversation about you. I can close my eyes at night without the thought of you drowning. Gasping for your last breath. Calling someone for help. I can see your pictures and not get shocked all over again. I can dream of you without dreaming your death.
I have not been in mourning for seven hundred and twenty six days.
I don’t feel guilty when I smile or laugh freely. I don’t feel guilty enjoying other people’s company. I don’t feel guilty that the world has gone on without you. I don’t feel guilty that I have something to look forward to, that I have a goal I am working towards. I don’t feel guilty that when I talk about you to someone, it doesn’t make me choke up anymore.
After all, I have not mourned you for a long time.
It’s okay for me to have a life. It’s okay for me to keep breathing. It’s okay for me to love the ocean, love the water. It’s okay for me want something for myself. It’s okay to not shape my life to yours. You are not entitled to my everything. Not anymore. If your death wasn’t about me, then my life shouldn’t have to be about you either.
The fourth day after you died, I woke up feeling as if you had died again. Every fourth day when I am suppose to start living, I remember you dying. And so I start my mourning for three days all over again.
Day One: I mourn for a friend I couldn’t save.
Day Two: I mourn for a friend I couldn’t be.
Day Three: I mourn for all the people who would never know as a friend.
I have mourned you two hundred and forty three times in these past two years.
At first, the grief was so palpable. I could feel it on my finger tips as I reached out to others. I could feel it sitting on top of my voice box, every time I tried to speak. I could feel it cut a riff inside me with its edges to make room. But the edges have smoothed over time. Grief feels more fluid, more easy to handle. I know exactly how to divert my mind every time I saunter too close to a memory. I know to time myself until the pains ebbs away. I know if everything fails, sleep doesn’t. I have learned to maneuver through my head, through my life, may be through grief itself.
I know one day I will stop counting how many times I have mourned for you. All mourning does come to an end, somewhere. If something filled with such vivacity can die, how can something so dark go on? But I am afraid of what’s after mourning.
If I stop mourning you, would it mean I have forgotten you? If I mourn you for as many years as I have known you, would it be okay for it to end? If I stop mourning, would I stop remembering? Would I forgive? If I stop mourning, do I have to start living by myself? At least in sadness, you are with me. If I cut my ties to you, would this count as leaving. Could I be the one who does the leaving?
I don’t know what comes after this. So I start again.
Two hundred and forty four.
Amar Shobdo 