Mourning (Like Lava): On Returning to the Last Place She Was Alive

Abstract

There are some remembrances that are burned into memory: hospital corridors, last moments, and slowed time. It’s easy to measure grief by the days in which the weight is too much. Scales toppled. Memories flashed. But what of its grayness? Abandoned dishes in the sink, the monotony of repeating the “death story,” halted sympathies, and personal absentmindedness. Grief shares a room with the hard truths about Black mortality that are dependent on zip codes, socioeconomic class, and deeply rooted anti-blackness. So unsettling is this grief that is easily tangled within larger webs that it seems to lose its sacredness. Holiness comes from embodiment. I am here and a product of my ancestors (no matter how complicated). My breath is a life force. My breath is a rebellion. My breath will be my salvation. Grief teaches that finding your breath and groundedness is the antidote to strength.To view the original version of this poem, see the supplemental material section of this article online.