“I think I’d like that.” Like doesn’t sound as if it was the right word, a foreign concept voiced aloud. I’m not sure I’m supposed to like anything anymore. I’m not supposed to see or hear or taste or feel any part of life anymore. Fela is gone.

We sit in silence. Time loses any meaning again. We’re just two people adrift in the silence of mourning. Communicating and sympathizing loss without the need for words. Sitting because our legs might not be able, be ready, to bear us up. Focusing on our loss without distraction, brought low by the sudden unexpected absence in our lives; yet hoping to find comfort, strength, and faith in our journey together.

“I always meant to come see you after Xola’s passing.” I break the easy quiet between us. Not wishing to ruin the peaceful space we’ve carved out, but now finding myself again needing the comfort of her voice.

“I know. And no offense, I did not miss your company.” Her smile rueful, a bittersweet thing without malice. I arch an eyebrow for her to continue. “In the many rituals of grief, I had no shortage of company for the first few days after his passing and send-off. Conversations obliged to begin with ‘Sorry for your loss.’ Community wrestling with their own sense of loss while I struggle to figure out how to respond to this conversational reminder of my pain. Underneath the exchange, you know they fight the temptation to treat you like you have a disease they might catch.”

“The thing is, I’ve caught it.” I hunch over.

Selamault softly pets my back. “I know. Grief isolates because the sadness is the only part about it that anyone knows. It’s complicated. And strange. I think about the happy times with Xola. His ridiculous jokes. And I laugh. Then wonder if I’m allowed to laugh. And part of me fears with every exchange that I’ll never be able to talk about the funny memories again without making everyone around me uncomfortable. So I have to navigate spaces filled with pitying head tilts, averted eyes, and everyone treating me as if I am fragile. While acknowledging that I, in fact, am.”

“I’m not fragile. I’m angry.” Shifting in my seat, the words—bitter and sharp—cause me greater discomfort than I thought. A window to my pain I’m not prepared to have.

“You’re both. We all are. This is the journey we’re on. That we’ve always been on. Navigating the history of pain, anger, unfairness. Our family torn from us in ways we didn’t expect. Grief isn’t just one thing. A process compounded by the fact that the Universe won’t allow you room to grieve in peace, because your loss was shrouded in horror, played out for all to see.”