Mourning - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Sometimes his memory can make me sad, little brothers can get you like nothing else. Max - fiercely loyal and overprotective, like I ever needed that. Me who got leniency from to police and him who got the full whack of the law every time. But that’s white girls and brown boys for you, equal and separate under the law. I have to stop thinking of him now. The wish for him to be here fills me with such rage and bitterness that I think I will explode. One day I will grieve for him, but first I would have to accept he is really gone - and though I dug his grave myself there’s part of me that holds the memory back. There’s part of me that will never believe he won’t come bouncing around some corner to laugh at me for falling for this elaborate joke.
A full year after his passing the mourning had not run it's course. The heaviness was in her limbs as much as her mind. Things she used to find funny now only caused a deepening of the pain. He should have been there to laugh with her, or at her, or just near her. He should be making his espressos in that damn expensive machine and complaining about the price of eggs. He should be gawping at pictures of fast cars on the internet and planning what to spend his future lottery winnings on. He should be gossiping about the people he worked with worse than an old woman. But most of all he should be there to hug her goodnight and kiss her before she left for work. She missed all that. Now there was just a graveyard, a stone that bore his name and his cold bones beneath the soil. She had always been agnostic, but now she put all her faith in God to care for him and reunite them when her life was done. Nothing and nobody that good could simply disappear, he was waiting, she could feel it.
It was more than crying, it was the kids of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope. She sank to her knees at the tiny grave, not caring for the damp mud that dirtied her dress. Her tears mingled with the rain and her gasping wails echoed around the gravestones. The pain that flowed from her was as palpable was the frigid fall wind and soon the only person at her side was her husband, struggling to keep his tears silent, looking up to the watery skies and heaven beyond. He had to believe his baby was safe up there, comfortable and warm. To look down would be to imagine her cold in a box,bereft of his cuddles and goodnight kisses.
The official mourning hadn't yet begun and already she was tired of it. He'd been a cantankerous old man, gambling her grandmothers earning and selling his children's belongings for cigarette money. now she was supposed to wear black and look sad. Damn it. She just didn't want to. This felt far more like an occasion for bunting and cake. But no. The only person she would successfully punish with those actions would be her grandmother, and she had suffered enough. So she pulled on the black and tied her hair in a solemn low braid, removed her make-up and cleaned off her nails. There was no getting around this one. If she thought of the pile of homework she had to do it shouldn't be too hard to look unhappy.
When the words would not come, the tears did. The mourning was supposed to be something dignified and stoic in my family, but I cried like a child, noisily, with running snot and choking sobs and I was not ashamed.
The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.
He cried until there was nothing left inside but a raw emptiness that nibbles at his insides like a hungry rat. His irises were threaded scarlet and his eyeballs hung heavy in their sockets. His whole body hung limp like each limb weighed twice as much as it had before and just moving it about was a slow, painful effort. The sun still shone in the sky, but not for him, the birds sung in bursts of melody, but not for him, for him there was no beauty left in the world.
The lake mirrored the sky above, both of them the kind of blue that colours those impossibly bright tourist brochures. Tamara closed her eyes. The breeze that ran unchecked over the rippled surface blew her long bangs from her eyes and brought colour to her usually pale cheeks. Without the distraction of the view she could detect the scent. The moist early summer air was fragranced with the pine trees that circled the lake, growing so close that some had toppled in and others dangles cobra-thick roots into the water. In her hands were stones, one for each of her relatives that had perished in the war. With eyelids flung wide she moved like a cricketer to send them flying into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted the name of one her heart still ached for. When she was done she sat on the sand, legs crossed and back straight, and waited for the long-away dusk to come...
...I could imagine how, in our absence, June's spirit, her many ghosts, might stealthily reassert possession, recapturing not just her furniture and kitchenware and pictures but the curl of a magazine cover, the ancient Australia-shaped stain on the bathroom wall, and the latent body shape of her old gardening jacket, still hanging behind a door because no one could bear to throw it out.