“Hope” is the thing with feathers - Emily Dickinson
And grief is the thing with teeth. The thing that gnaws. Saws through sinew and bone. The thing that leaves marks, leaves scars, sometimes fades but never quite leaves. In traces, in heaves.
What a strange greeting — my inaugural newsletter and you’re hit with weird metaphors and nonsequiturs about grief. Is this what you signed up for? I suppose the onus is on me to answer that. To tell you about my plans, who I am, what you can expect. I briefly considered a “post zero” with the traditional introductions and immediately decided I hated the idea. Instead, I’ve brought you onto this ship with me and I’ve got the wheel. Stay for the ride or grab a lifejacket on your way out. What can you expect? This, but more. Or this, but different. Or not this at all. Or something wearing the mask of whatever This is. Some poems, maybe fiction, sometimes media analysis, personal musings. A cacophony, a smorgasbord.
So you’re right — I don't want to talk about grief. Or I do. But more specifically, I want to talk about plants. I have never had a green thumb. I bought a succulent at the farmer’s market once and shattered it. I killed my aloe plant and still don’t know how. A pen pal sent me basil seeds last year and I still haven’t planted them.
All this to say that last month, on July 9th, the first anniversary of my paternal grandfather’s death arrived quietly. He lived in Karachi, Pakistan and — without mincing words — he was old, his health was slowly deteriorating, but he was nowhere near death. He had contracted COVID-19 despite his steadfast quarantine and within a week, he was gone. On the day of his death, two of my best friends, Kiersten and Amrutha, sent me two plants. I have since lost the little cards that tell you their legal names but Gretchen has big leaves that like to sprawl (my friend Emily asked if she was a cast iron. At first I thought she meant made of cast iron — goes to show how little I know of plants — but apparently, a cast iron plant does in fact exist. After some extensive research (read: a five minute Google image search) I’ve determined her leaves are a little larger than a cast iron’s would be so the jury’s out) and Sweet Dee is some type of philodendron or climbing plant (probably — you really shouldn’t take my word for it).
I have kept them alive for a year and change — longer than my shattered succulent, my fragile little aloe plant, even the peace lily I received upon graduating college that I tried so hard to tend to. I have moved them to a new house, scorched one of Sweet Dee’s leaves, learned she doesn’t like being sun-kissed but something adjacent is more like it. Learned that Gretchen likes to drink up and she’ll droop when she’s thirsty. Learned to pour my grief into soil.
And there’s a lot to pour, to be sure — I am careful not to overwater. Because the thing is, when we talk about death, we talk about how there was nothing we could have done. How it’s a shame but it was “their time.” When the person who dies is 80 years old, amplify this by 100. His time, his time, his time. A platitude we tell ourselves, in the same vein as “I’ll do it later.” You won’t and you know you won’t but you say it — to hear your voice, or to be heard, or to imagine the world in which you might finally set the alarm. We say these platitudes and we feel better, assuaged by promises of tomorrow and thoughts of “nothing we could have done.” And yet, and yet, and yet the watering can is not empty.
In her poem, “To the Young Who Want To Die,” Gwendolyn Brooks writes “you do not have to die this certain day.” And this line is the one I keep returning to, grounding myself in, because my grandfather did not have to die on July 9th, 2020. My grandfather who stayed in isolation, who stopped his daily walks along the borders of his property, who did not dare meet anyone during the pandemic. I ground myself in this quote or I will ground myself in blame. In anger. The roots I have been cultivating will rot around me. He did not have to die that certain day, but he did. And as cliche as it is, I have been left with two living things to tend to in his place. A reminder of his presence every day.
I am not a fool — I will eventually kill these plants and when it happens it will not be some big metaphor about grief and moving on. Just the story of a girl who is not quite suited for gardening. But while they make a home on my bedroom floor, I will drink up the metaphor and swallow the dregs.
So grief has teeth. And grief has claws. And grief curls its tendrils around you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Grips you tight. Tells you this wasn’t supposed to happen. Slinks into your crevices. Grief is unrelenting in its pervasiveness. I will live with this, I suppose. Unroot myself from it eventually. Settle into the greenery.
In ivy, in thorn,
Noor
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Currently, I'm:
Watching: Supernatural, from the beginning (again). Suffer with me.
Reading: The White Album - Joan Didion
Working On: A freelance research project, learning (more) Python, and a poetry chapbook.
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