I have been thinking of writing to you all week, and while my mind has been running with everything I want to say, my fingers kept still. My heart was loud but my throat wanted quiet. It felt like words would take up too much space as they escaped me. I retreated back into myself. I was tired, for no good reason, sleepless at night, and irritated during the day. I was aching at a cellular level. An emotional pain, simmering, deeper. I was communicating with trees, the weather and memories, responding to humans when I must.
Symptoms of grief, these were. I welcomed them and watched them as old friends I had not seen in years. They were only natural after losing my devotedly loving grandmother last Saturday.
A hasty travel to reach the funeral in time, five weirdly sunny days in Istanbul, and here I am back in Paris.
The letter I had prepared for you before her passing was coincidentally one of poetry and nature. Then, the funeral happened, which was also of poetry and nature. Turkish (Muslim?) funerals are bare. Away from music, symbols, speeches, we witness the meeting of body and soil. We listen as words pray for love and sit as someone fills our bellies with food. Neighbors come we had never seen, stories come we had never heard, relationships find a place for mending. All this happens in the mosque down the street, in the living room where the now dead person spent her every day, in the kitchen where she made tea.
Death feels familiar.
Still, how many days do we spend forgetting about it?
This funeral got me thinking, again, about touch
as a continuous thing and humans
as a thing of nature.