Standing Firm on Trembling Knees

A few days ago, I was in Jamaica for my grandfather’s funeral. As customary with the celebration of life on the island, a funeral is a two-day event. First, there is the Nigh-night, and the day after is the funeral.

The Nigh-night is an all-night party.
When we arrived in Cumberland, the party had already begun. A tent was pitched with bamboo and tarp, the lights were flashing, and the music was pumping out of the speakers. Women were sitting on benches, men were leaning on trees, and the young people moved like water in the dark. There was a man, in the center, dancing and dripping with sweat.

My grandparents had fourteen children, so I searched the crowd for familiar faces – my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Uncle Dave greeted me the way he always does – picking me up off the ground and swinging me in the air. I found Uncle Gary in the dark the way I would the rest of my family- by looking for their small faces and pearly white teeth. I greeted each of my aunts in dance and screamed when I saw my sweet mother. We ate, danced and drank a few Red Stripes but by 2 am, I was exhausted. I went in search of a place to sleep and left the man still dancing.

I woke three hours later, the only way one does in Jamaica – by the rooster’s alarm. As the moon pulls the tide, so did the sun pull us – me, my husband, my siblings, and cousins – to the veranda. It was the morning of the funeral, and before we leave for an emotionally charged day, Auntie Madge fed us. While we admired her beautifully rugged garden, Auntie Madge cooked calaloo and saltfish, fried breadfruit and plantains on her outside fire. Fed and full, we drove up the rocky, winding road to the funeral.

The reality of my grandfather’s passing evaded me until I was standing firm on trembling knees, before his casket. Papa’s body was present, but his essence – his sunny smile, and his sapphire eyes were closed to this realm.  Three or four hours later – after songs, tributes, readings, a sermon, and the eulogy – we gathered at the graveside. Women and children sang, while men mixed and poured concrete over the tomb.

I waited for the singing to seize, and for everyone to leave so that I can have a brief moment at Papa’s graveside. I stood in silence and surveyed the yard I once called home and the land Papa once farmed. I scanned the vegetation he left behind. The chocho, coffee, ackee, June plums, sweet potato field, and the banana trees baring purple flowers atop and pups beneath.

I said farewell to Papa,
smiled with my husband and brother, and walked to the outside fire to get myself a cup of Manish water soup.
As I sipped the soup and surveyed the people gathered on the land my grandfather loved, I thought about Sanjay – the bartender who poured me a drink a few days prior. As though he was clairvoyant and knew the reason for my visit, he said: “We are all born to die.”

My question, therefore, is how can I live?