A Memoir: The Village Effect
Here I stand again, before a congregation of loved ones reading aloud the life story of one of my mothers. I composed her obituary as though I were creating a memoir bathed in honey. I give my grandmother’s virtue the honor and respect she, my Gama, deserves: a proper farewell, an ode to her legacy, a lyrical mirage of love, the same as I did for our second mother, Nana. As I stand before my family, I see the immeasurable sense of loss in their eyes. A mirrored reflection of numbness is shared by each of us like a heavy cloak of grief. What do we do now that both our matriarch and cornerstone are gone?
On March 26, 2014, we lost our cornerstone, Nana, and on March 29, 2016, we lost our matriarch, Gama. In our home, Nana was the breadwinner, and Gama the homemaker. The two sisters were so deeply connected that one came back for the other at the second anniversary of her death. Some would call that poetry. Oddly, so do I. Nevertheless, here I stand. This time in my hometown, in my childhood church, before my family and its congregation, and I’m temporarily lost in a state of observation.