March 3rd, 2023

We’ve tried to make death invisible. Modernized and sanitized dying. Mourning, I have been told, is indecent. My mother’s death hidden behind white walls. My daughter’s death surrounded my white walls. My grandmother’s death, drench in white. I’ve been told by more than one therapist that I shouldn’t tell people I’ve lost a child. Why burden them with my mourning, my loss, my tragedy. When I’m asked if I have children, I say no. I lie. I die a little inside. I live in anguish. I let my pain fester. I realize it’s my choice to share, but to lie. Once, I told a woman I couldn’t have children, the conversation went silent. her eyes darting, no response. Awkward discomfort. I lightened the situation by telling her, I have puppies. Cute, Sweet, Lovely.

Death was still a common occurrence in the last half of the nineteenth century. Three out of every twenty babies died before their first birthdays and those who survived could not expect to live more than forty-two years. Death and care of the body would take place in the home. The entire house would participate in preparations and mourning. Elaborate rituals were performed and children were not sheltered from the death.