I was woken by the notes of grief that echoed from the room below. With half my consciousness still in sleep, I imagined that this was still part of my dream, that the song was connected to my subconscious, and not a part of the scene that unfolded beneath me. The notes got louder and heavier, forcing the song through the ceiling and up into my room. I could hear the mumbling voices, the opening and closing of the doors, and the various hushed tones. The singer of the song sounded familiar, but it could not be her, for she had no reason to sing such a song. She could not be the one wailing through tears in the living room below for she was usually the most cheerful of them all.
I finally forced myself to leave my bedroom to investigate the commotion below. I slipped on my comfy slippers and slowly made my way down the stairs., the crying getting louder and louder with each step. I could hear it clearer as I passed the kitchen, I knew without a doubt that it was her. I stood behind the closed living room door, wondering whether or not I could possibly go in, feeling the weight of her sorrow through the door, almost like a force field, engulfing her in her grief. I stood in hesitation, wondering what contribution I could possibly make, not fully understanding the cause of the grief or the remedy to it.
I walked through the door, seeing both familiar and unfamiliar faces. I sat down in an empty space on the already crowded sofa, waiting, and listening for an explanation. “He’s dead” a voice said, “your uncle is dead”.
I got up and approached my aunty, with open arms and an embrace. I apologised for his death, as if I had been personally responsible. Still in shock, I walked out of the room, and back upstairs, back to my room, and back to my bed.
I stayed there whilst the winds banged at my window, Storm Dennis was fast approaching, but not as fast as the endless friends and family that flooded the house. I found my phone and cancelled my plans for the day, the prospect of leaving my room, let alone my house seemed impossible. I laid in bed as the dark clouds covered the house, not knowing what else to do.
I woke up the next morning and I could still hear the echoes of her song, I could still see her distressed and tear-soaked face. Even now, a week later, I can still hear the song of grief.