Remember Me
I had a dream last night. A friend of mine came to visit, quite distraught. His mother had passed away and he did not know how to handle it. I was about to comfort him. I was going to tell him that my mother had just passed away also. Before I could say anything another ex-colleague of mine entered my home.
She was very self-centered. Seeing his distress, she just kept talking, telling him, “It will be all right”. Adding experiences that she had with the death of others and how everyone involved survived their grief, how he should be strong because he was the one in control of his own destiny. In time, he would forget his sadness.
I could not get her to shut up. Even listening to her brought back the feelings I had when my mother died. The sadness for both me and my friend began to overwhelm me.
It was at this point that I came to a state of almost wakefulness. I realized that though the people in my dream were real, the situation was not. For one thing, I have no idea of my friend’s family and if anyone has passed away. For another, my mother passed away in 1998, and though I think of her periodically, the sadness that I feel is not as strong as it was at the time of her burial, and I should not be feeling it that strong now.
However, in reality, my sister had passed away two months ago, today. My sadness had some real basis in this dream. And that might have been on my mind. It was at this point that I went back to the dream stage.
My obnoxious colleague was gone and it was just me and my friend. My response to him was, “Tell me about your mom.”
At this point, he began to talk to me about what his mom did in her life, how she interacted with him growing up, how he cared for her in her old age, of the love he had for her.
His stories brought back memories of my sister to me. It didn’t necessarily abate the sadness, but it gave it meaning.
I ended up telling him that through his stories his mom was not dead. With his memories of her, she still lived and as long as he kept and shared those memories she would continue to exist and be part of him.
There is an African folktale, ‘The Cow-tail Switch’ in which a father leaves his family to go out hunting for a day leaving his expectant wife and many sons, planning to return that night. When he doesn’t return that night, they continue to wait. This goes on for months and years. Life goes on for his family. At the point where the youngest son learns to speak, his first words are, “Where is my father?”
The others in the house realize that he should have been home, and the brothers go out looking for him. Each brother does something different, one discovers the trail their father had taken finds a scattering of bones in the woods, their father’s, who must have been killed in the hunt. One son then uses his skills to put the bones together, another adds skin and muscles, another adds blood, another adds the breath of life, yet another adds speech, and finally one adds movement.
As the story ends the father who is now alive, comes back to the village and does well. He creates a cow-tail switch which he brings with him to all important ceremonies and it is admired by all. Many in the village ask for the cow-tail switch to be given to them. But the father kept it in his hand. The father declares that he will give it to one of his sons; the one who did the most to bring me back from the dead. They each vie for it, claiming that their skill brought their father back. The story ends with the father giving the Cowtail Switch to his youngest son (the one that wasn’t born yet when he left) because he was the only one to ask, “Where is my father?”
As long as we remember the people who we miss and share their stories, they will not pass away. They will always be with us.
This is why I write and tell stories. Lest we forget.
