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Funerals bring out all kinds of emotions for everyone. Some of the more obvious ones include grief, which spans a spectrum of intensities, depending of course on a variety of factors such as, the individual’s closeness to the recently transitioned, one’s feelingness as in the opposite of numbness, where the transition falls on one’s list of shit to think about, amongst others. At the funeral of my mother’s godmother, a sister to my late grandmother and great aunt, I felt the sadness hanging over the room. She was deeply loved not only by her children, grandchildren and husband, but those who may not have stood before her each day, but experienced her whenever they could. 

 

My mother and I watched as her godsister, Marlene’s only daughter, Shakilah, held everything together, putting her grief on hold, as her brothers and the men of the family acted as they should in light of the unexpected passing of their dearly departed mother, grandmother, wife etc. She wore sneakers with her skirt, and moved effortlessly through the crowds, in and out of the crowded funeral space, navigating outstretched hands, and lingering hugs that I hope were beneficial to her, even if just a little, in the moment. It was a vague, but familiar sight to me. Well, at the very least, it correlated well with the story my mother told me about managing the funeral of my grandmother alone nearly 16 years ago. 

 

As the only and eldest daughter, there was no real choice in the matter. In light of my grandmother's unexpected passing, she left behind a 29 year old daughter, and a 7 year old granddaughter, who had plans of moving into the house with her just a few months later. My mother planned her mother’s funeral. And somewhere in the midst of my grieving haze, I assume I was right there by her side, but who can remember anything in the light of grief? Arguably the people who simply didn’t have time to feel it. 

 

Standing outside of the funeral home on the corner of 149th and Amsterdam, the sun was sinking, but underneath the royal blue awning in the June heat, my mother broke down into tears. She said that there was no one to look after her anymore. She had grown accustomed to hearing the voices of the women who had staked claim over her and her well-being, her doing the right thing. The women of the block have dwindled away, and there is hardly a block to be kept anymore. I don’t know which of the two is worse. 

 

My mind went to a dastardly ‘next man up’ kind of mentality, and I don’t even want to imagine what she was feeling at that moment. The fact is that people do die no matter how much they are loved, nor the caliber of people who love them. The best we can do is hope that the people who loved and cared for them both carry their legacies forward, impacting the lives of those who come after them and so on. But what if there is no one to look after? Or no space for the legacies within us?

 

The block is a block, but it isn’t much without the people who made it so.

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