My 19-year old cousin died in February. On his way back to his dorm he fell off his skateboard, into the street, and was run over by a passing vehicle. The driver was only 20 years old. It was close to midnight, visibility was poor, my aunt and uncle seemed to understand and had no resentment towards the driver, although my uncle was much more visibly distraught.
It happened on a Friday evening and come Saturday afternoon everyone who could, aunts, uncles and cousins had gathered at his parents to be there for them and for his four older brothers. The brother I am closest to, the second oldest was in tears. He felt, as many older siblings do, that he had somehow failed his baby brother and that it should have been him, because he doesn’t have a degree. I told him that our lives hold more value and meaning beyond fancy papers, but felt awkward. “It’s easy for you to say that, with your master’s degree,” my inner voice criticized.
His mom was much calmer. She spoke of godly grace and love, thankful for the time she had had with her son. I could feel in myself the absence of such faith, although I have found my own comfort in the universe’s indifference to our lives, one moment here and another gone. Before we left that first saturday, members of her congregation had come to grieve with her.
The religious traditions surrounding death continued into the week, although virtually because of time and space. Family in Mexico was able to join, as well as those of us with jobs that would have prevented making an evening trek, 3 hours out to where my aunt and uncle live. Those that could drove out to my aunt and uncle’s place and sat with them in the living room while the rest of us followed along on our phones and laptops. Two of my older cousins had together created a sideshow presentation so we could all follow along in prayer. Each day, different family members paired up to do the call and response readings. I even did my first of such readings, although, unfamiliar with the structure, I read over the response prayers.
On Wednesday my aunt cracked. One of her sisters asked her how she was holding up and she got as far as, “I’m thankful we’re doing this…” Her voice trailed off and she hid her face in my uncle’s shoulders. The next day I cried on my way to and from the office. I called out Friday because I hadn’t stopped crying. I didn’t know my cousin well, I’m ten years older than him and there’s many other cousins between the two of us, including his four older brothers. But I am closer to my dad’s side of the family and seeing my aunt break seemed to give me permission to do so as well. My uncle, from the get go, was not well, at some point that first Saturday he had just walked away from the house and we had to go looking for him.
That week came and went. On the last night of the prayers I was over at their house again, bowing my head at the right time but otherwise staying quiet so as to not remind my family I didn’t know the prayers. Not that they minded, but it felt too much like I’d be drawing attention to myself. The family agreed to gather virtually one more time and we did, a little more distant from the date of the accident but still with my cousin’s corpse in some morgue somewhere.
Finally after two months of waiting, the funeral is happening. Today, I’ll be leaving to the Inland Empire for the viewing. Hopefully, it will still be early enough that I can beat the work commute traffic. Tomorrow, we’ll bury his body. I didn’t work today and I’m fact had a hard time getting out of bed. I had pushed out of my mind the fact of the matter, ignoring the loss as a way of coping with it. It’s almost as if, because of the mortuaries and cemeteries being so backed up due to Covid, that the indifferent universe conspired to have our grief frozen. I don’t think I know any other way to cope, or rather, that’s my default and I find myself having to force the processing of my own emotions. In that my own emotional wiring is tangled up and broken, I can appreciate the traditions and customs forcing us to see what’s in front of us, to gather with those most deeply affected and share in their misery, expunging our own grief and reminding us of theirs. Perhaps that’s why I laid in bed for so long this morning. I wasn’t ready to go experience that intimacy yet. Not that I am now either, but waiting will only make the traffic worse.