Fresh wounds and evanescent scars

When a cut is fresh, your perception of everything else is blunted by the acuteness of pain. In pain, your foremost need is that the cut be tended to, with care. Everything else is non-existent—your attention is focused on the immediate. Shallow cuts may do with a bandage, while deeper cuts require a more thorough treatment. The same is true of the wounds underneath, the cuts to the soul.

Grieving is a sign of life. It is a natural reaction to the loss of a part of you. It is the realisation that the cut was unnecessary. Losing someone you love is always a cut too deep to stop the bleeding alone. You need someone close to help you treat the wound. A host of neighbours.

When I lost my father to brain cancer 19 years ago, my world was shattered. He was the rock I stood on, and suddenly the ground shifted and my foundation was no more, leaving me hanging by a thread. The unforgettable moments I spent with my father during the first eleven years of my live could not compare to anything I have experienced since his passing.

Grieving is the realisation that the wound is going to leave a mark. Sometimes the scar is dim. Sometimes it is ready to burst at the minute impulse. But the pain fades. Reluctantly, it makes it easier to breathe, it makes room for a tearless start.

In grieving, we learn to adopt what has been taken from us. Peace, energy, joy. We learn to resolve to live a life worthy of the ones we lost, forming and shaping it into an eternal tribute. Because we know they would be blessed if we did.

Weeping with neighbours

My father died of cancer when I was 11, my siblings younger and my mother embarking on a heavy journey of raising three children on her own. So, I sometimes think that it is natural for me to complain about life being unfair.

I am aware that complaining about what life throws my way is pointless. However, I find myself worrying about futile things every now and again. Lacking substance, they aim to fill my mind and heart, crippling my senses and preventing me from living.

Then come cold and sharp reminders of the finiteness of life, which make me be grateful for what I have.


Rebecca Alison Meyer died of cancer on the 7th of June, the the day she turned 6. She was called Little Spark by her father Eric A. Meyer. He shared the troubles his family has been going through on his blog and Twitter.

I have never met Eric or Rebecca. We are strangers. And yet, during the past week, the world has not been weeping with strangers. We have all become neighbours, brought closer by this little spark. (In honour of Rebecca, many people used hashtag #663399Becca on Twitter and elsewhere, to show support to the Meyer family.)

When I see purple, I think of Rebecca. I do not think it is ever going to change. Purple was her favourite colour. For me, purple is Rebecca now.

Rest in peace, sweet child!