Rituals of Goodbye
Brian Sankarsingh on an only child losing his mother
The rain began falling the morning his mother died. It was not the hard driving kind of rain; but a soft drizzle that lightly blurred the edges of things, as if the world itself were mourning her passing. Malik sat by her hospital bed, holding her frail hands, though he could no longer feel life within her body. The machine connected to her was eerily silent. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest. His mind blank as a slow painful realization began to dawn upon him. From this moment forward, he would stand alone.
She had been everything: his mother, his confidante, his guide. He had not had a great relationship with his father, leaving the two of them to build a life around each other. She was his stalwart rock; ever present with common sense advice or a silly joke that would have him shaking his head. She was the glue that held the family together. Now that she was gone, it felt as though the scaffolding that held his world together had collapsed. It was not just grief but the horrid realization that he was untethered—left adrift with no one who would call him their own.
Threadbare Anchor
You were the anchor that held me down
A steady stone in a restless sea
The quilt that covered me through nights of fear,
The arms that cradled all my dreams
Those hands now lie cold, and still as glass
No lullabies left in your silent chest
And I am unanchored, untied, alone
Set loose in the tide of what comes next He thought about all the rest of the firsts in his life and how she would not be there to share them with him. This beautiful soul that had unconditionally loved and supported him since he could remember, now…gone. The priest’s voice broke into his reverie telling him he had to prepare for the funeral within the next two days. Malik, still numb, could not comprehend how quickly life moved on after someone died. The world felt too fast, too careless! People rushing to clean, to finalize papers, to pack away a life that had once meant everything. They offered instructions: a white kurta, flowers, incense. Malik scribbled down the details as though the task were mechanical. But his heart ached beneath every instruction. He went back to the small apartment they had shared and walked through the rooms she had once filled. Her scent was still in the air—jasmine oil and cinnamon from her cooking, clinging to the fabric of the curtains. Her scarf lay abandoned on the arm of the couch. He sat on the floor in front of her altar, the place where she used to light a diya every morning and wept inconsolably. There was no one else to console him. No one to say, “It’s going to be okay." Just him and his mother’s absence, filling every inch of the space.
The Room Without You
In every corner, there you are
A ghost of hands washing dishes at the sink
The sound of your slippers against the floor
The hum of your song while stirring tea
Now silence hums louder than life
Your chair holds nothing but air and dust
And the light that once bent toward you
Falls without purpose through the windows
I sit, hoping to fold into the quiet
But it does not hold me—only echoes back
There is no remedy for absence On the day of the funeral, Malik dressed in white. The color felt ironic, like a mockery of his despair. He stood beside his mother’s body, which lay wrapped in crisp linen, her face serene, as if asleep. But she was not asleep. There would be no waking her from this. He wanted to shake her awake anyway, he wanted to scream and ask her how she could leave him behind, how he was supposed to carry on without her. But only silent tears, feeling warm against his cheek. He whispered prayers that felt too small, too insignificant compared to what he had lost. This was supposed to be a ritual of release, a final offering to guide her spirit. But as the flames consumed her body, Malik felt as if it were consuming him too.
The Fire of Goodbye
They say the fire sets the soul free
But it takes you from me as well
Ashes scatter, bones become dust
And I remain, clutching the embers
Smoke curls upward like a question
Rising where I cannot follow
If this is freedom, why do I stay chained
If you are gone, why am I still here
I stare into the fire because I must
It burns through all that was once you
It devours the memories, the mornings,
The love I had no time to say When the fire was done, only ashes remained. The final task lay ahead - scattering her remains at the river, where the current would carry them far and wide, encompassing her into the earth and sky. The priest assured him this was the way to release her spirit. But every step toward that river felt like betrayal—as if letting her go meant losing the last thing that connected them. Malik stood on the riverbank, holding the urn in shaking hands. The water shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, glimmering like a promise of peace. He wished she could have told him what peace felt like—if it were anything close to this unbearable emptiness. He opened the urn and let the wind steal her away. Her ashes drifted across the river, settling into the water. Malik watched until there was nothing left to see, but the heaviness in his heart remained. He knelt by the river, dipped his fingers into the chilly water, and whispered the words he had said so many times while she was still alive.
For the Love Unsaid
I loved you in the quiet ways
In the mornings when I said goodbye
In the times I stormed out but came back
In the dinners where I stayed silent by your side
The weight of the deep love I had for you
Was the easiest I have every carried
But now that you are no longer here
The weight of your loss is too much to bear
If I could turn silence into flowers
I would have then strewn across the world
But all I have are these words too late
Scattered like those petals in the wind Malik sat by the river long after the sun had set. The rituals were over and all that remained was memory. Grief, he realized, was a ritual with no end. It would become part of him; a quiet hum beneath every thought, every conversation, every night. It was a love that refused to leave, even when the one it belonged to was gone. And in that endless ache, Malik knew, there was something sacred too: his mother’s presence, stitched forever into the fabric of his heart. Her unconditional love imbued every fibre of his being. He stood, brushing the dirt from his knees, and whispered, "Goodbye, Ma! Oh, how I miss you and how I love you." The night was silent, but in the stillness, it almost felt like she whispered back. And for the first of many times since she had left, Malik smiled—a small, broken painful smile. He silently resolved to work on improving the relationship with his father as the first of many things he would do honour his mother’s memory. Life would go on; there was no way to stop it, but his mother was within him and in his life.
Bio: BRIAN SANKARSINGH is a Trinidadian-born Canadian immigrant who has published several books of poetry on a wide range of social and historical themes including racism, colonialism, and enslavement. Sankarsingh artfully blends prose and poetry into his storytelling creating an eclectic mix with both genres. This unique approach is sure to provide something for everyone.
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