It was the last Sunday of the month.
It had been four years but still grief did not knock.
It burst in uninvited.
We had just finished a long walk at the Nairobi Arboretum. We sat down to catch our breath and talk a little more. And then it happened. The tears came, reluctant and slowly. She tried to stop them but I told her she didn’t need to. “They’re happy tears,” she insisted. But I knew better. I watched as she cried. Happy? Yes. But painful. A contradiction only grief knows how to create.
It was the last Sunday of the month.
That meant game night.
Ever since she was a child every last Sunday had been saved for game night. Laughter. Food. Sibling rivalries. Board games. And always, always her father would lead. His loud voice. The mischievous, last minute rule changes that somehow always only ever favoured him. And when challenged he’d insist, “I’m older, hence wiser.” They knew it was a lie. But they let him win anyway.
So, she cried. Because she missed that.
Because grief had found her through the open door of memory.
And I couldn’t help but think
not to question her sadness
but just silently thought.
What a beautiful blessing it was
to feel grief filled with love.
To be left with a memory
a memory that hurts… because it was good.
I watched her and I too felt pain.
Silent.
Deep.
Pain.
She was grieving what she had lost.
When my father dies
my fear is not that he will be gone.
It’s the pain of grieving what never was.
It’s the emptiness that will follow.
There won’t be joyful memories turned into grief.
There won’t be game nights to remember.
Just absence.
All that will be left is pain
empty pain.
It will be like mourning a ghost I never really knew
carrying a grief that doesn’t come with a fond memory.
That’s the pain I am scared of.
So yes
she was lucky.
Her grief had colour.
Mine?
A blank page.
“He was a good man,” she said.
“We were blessed to have him.”
I nodded.
“You really were.”
And I meant it.
PIECESBYRUTH 