Grief

 

Aunty B

Grief does not come in neat sentences. It comes in weight. In silence that feels too loud. In moments where everything looks normal but nothing actually is.

Aunty B is gone.

And that is still something the mind keeps trying to reject even after accepting it.

There is a part of me that keeps going back to the idea of hope. Because there was hope. Real hope. That she would get better. That this was just a difficult chapter. That she would come back to herself again. People showed up for her with that hope. They cared for her with that hope. Even small things like bringing food carried that belief that she was going to be okay.

And then she was not.

And now that hope has nowhere to go.

It just sits there with the grief.

Her children are left with something no child should have to grow inside. A life where their mother is no longer present. Not in the everyday way a mother is supposed to be. No more voice in the house. No more simple comfort of just knowing she is there. They will grow, yes. Life will continue, yes. But there is a space in them now that does not close. It just stays open and becomes part of who they are.

Her husband too, a partner is not just someone you love. It is someone you build a life with without even thinking about it. The routines. The small habits. The way two lives quietly become one shared rhythm. And now that rhythm is broken. Not paused. Not interrupted. Broken.

The house is still a house, but something inside it has stopped answering back.

And then there is everything else.

The family that knew her as a constant presence. The people who called her sister. The friends who laughed with her and assumed there would always be more time. Everyone left holding the same question that has no answer. How is she not here anymore.

That is what makes it hard.

Not just death. But the sudden removal of someone who was still part of life.

A life that still had space in it. Space for more conversations. More moments. More everything. And now that space exists with nothing inside it except memory.

What hurts most is that you do not realize the size of someone’s presence until they are gone. And then it hits all at once. Not gently. Not gradually. Just all at once.

Even now, it does not feel like something that should be spoken about in past tense. That is the strange part of grief. The mind keeps expecting them to still exist somewhere. Just not here.

And maybe that is what everyone who loved her is carrying now.

Not just sadness.

But the strange, heavy disbelief that someone who was part of life is no longer in it.

And learning how to live in that reality is the hardest part.

Continue resting in peace 😭🕊️

By Daniel ndung'u maina.