STORY GALLERY - JULY 2023

I’ve seen the black-clad women in the Middle East.

I’ve seen them publicly wailing over a lost relative, overwrought with emotion.

One woman more grief-stricken than the next.

Is it a competition?

I don’t understand grief.

I’ve been to funerals where I needed to wear black. Well, that was my belief.

But then I saw others wearing a daring shade of red or a vivid hue of blue.

I’ve wondered if I missed the memo on fashion trends at funerals.

So, I don’t know. Is there really a dress code we should adhere to?

I don’t understand grief.

I watched in awe as my niece spoke at my mother’s funeral, her voice strong, and her words so well-conceived.

I marvelled as she spoke so eloquently.

I wondered how she did it.

While I felt numb and unable to utter a single word coherently.

I don’t understand grief.

I sat in the front pews, reserved for close family at my sister’s funeral, hoping the service would be brief.

At the end, the congregation waited respectfully as close family stood to leave, all heads bowed silently.

In the piercing quiet as I took my bag, several coins tumbled out and clanked and rattled their way through the quiet, along the floors of wood, straight to the place where my sister’s coffin stood.

I wondered if I should chase them or leave them, shrink in shame or grin resignedly.

I don’t understand me.