Not everything I write should be read, but all of it should be written.
A nurse found her with a boiled egg in her mouth. Death had not even afforded her the dignity of finishing her meal before grabbing hold of her. God, why?
I have seen smiles galore in my time on Earth but none will ever eclipse Blessmore’s. Hers was seared in my mind from the tender age of five. It was a smile that represented everything beautiful about humanity. It was a smile that seemed to say, “It’s not so bad, just hang in there.”. It was a smile that came from a wheelchair-bound angel and that made it all the more powerful.
My aunt’s home, a few blocks from ours, was not particularly enchanting but Blessmore made the visit worth it. I remember the first time Mom and I went there and I saw her lying on the floor, reading a book. Ever the avid reader, I joined her. She didn’t seem to mind and did her best to satisfy my insufferable curiosity. “You’re very clever,” she said, stroking my hair. I didn’t feel clever at that time. I just felt loved.
It was only after I’d gotten back home that evening that Mom told me my cousin was actually an invalid. According to Aunt Lisiwe, Blessmore had woken up one morning and shouted that she couldn’t feel her legs. My aunt is a staunch Jehovah’s Witness and as such doesn’t believe in miracles, but she always talked about how she prayed her daughter would walk again. Funny how circumstances bend our beliefs.
Blessmore never walked again but her very essence was moving.
She would come over every now and then, pushed in a wheelchair by Aunt Lisiwe or one of her friends. Looking back, she may have played a part in me almost becoming a Witness. I wanted to know how an invalid could have so much hope and cheerfulness. She would talk about God in a way no adult ever did, despite being just nine years older than me at the time. I wanted to know what she knew and live as she did. Even when her condition became more grueling, she still radiated joy.
My heart went out to her when she was checked in at Kwekwe General Hospital. I feared the worst was on the way and boy did it come. One gloomy Tuesday afternoon, I came back from school and found Mom crying. “Mom, what’s wrong?” I quizzed. Sobs shook her. She looked at me and replied, “Blessmore, Ree. She is gone.”
Up to now, I get angry when religious people spew garbage about death as if they understand it at all. If God takes all the good people early so they can be with him, he must be very selfish. Does he not see how we miss the dearly departed? If he understands everything, is our grief mere collateral damage in his plans? I don’t have any answers with which to comfort myself and would like to keep it that way. It’s been seventeen years, but I doubt I will ever heal.
Dear God, why? What’s the grand idea behind a lovely soul expiring before it’s fully blossomed? Is there even a grand idea? You are you and I am not you, so I can only implore you to tend to my aching heart. If you will.
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