Under the shade of loss
by Whitney
“No sah, mmh mmh,” we heard Marsha murmuring from the bathroom, her voice a low hum against the backdrop of our arrival.
Agatha glanced at Marsha, her expression a mix of concern and empathy. Marsha had come back to Jamaica not long ago, returning to the childhood home where she grew up, and she was clearly feeling the weight of it. I stood a few feet behind Agatha as we entered the house, our footsteps muffled by the cool tiles. The bathroom was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow from the kitchen, where Marsha was diligently scrubbing the glass shower shutter. She wore rubber gloves, a Scotch Brite in one hand and a bottle of Lysol in the other, a portrait of determination even as beads of sweat trickled down her temples, her hairline, and her arms.
Despite the heat and the labour, her face lit up when she saw my mother. “Agatha!” she exclaimed, setting her cleaning supplies aside and stepping out to greet us. The two women embraced tightly, their friendship evident in the warmth of their reunion. Marsha then turned to me, her smile radiant, and placed her arm around my waist. “How yuh so gawjus, eeh man? Hello darling girl,” she said, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. I hugged her back, momentarily overwhelmed by her genuine affection. I asked her how she was holding up, and just then, her husband shuffled out from the hallway, the door barely parting to let him through, marking yet another round of warm greetings.
After a few moments, Marsha and Agatha fell into deep conversation, their voices rising and falling like waves.
“Aggie, di place nasty. Fly everyweh. Suh mi clean dem, a so dem come back. Mi rassclaat. Yuh shudda see di kitchen when mi reach. Floor dutty! A bay clean mi ah clean from mi come yah. Mi cya believe…” The urgency in her voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I decided to step outside for a moment to gather my own.
Night was creeping in, the sky transforming into a canvas splashed with blues, oranges, purples, and pinks that blended like watercolours. It looked surreal, as nature often does when one suddenly becomes aware of its beauty.
Outside, I spotted a group of four men gathered around a table in the yard, laughter spilling out as they played dominoes, slamming the pieces down with rhythmic precision. The sound resonated in the evening air. Slam! Slam!
The house sat in a small community on the outskirts of one of the major cities, nestled beside a freshly paved road. If you had travelled on that road years prior, you would revel in the small wonder of modern road repair and maintenance. Just a hundred yards from the house, you’d find yourself walking into the ghetto, as my mother would disdainfully put it. Slam! Slam!
This was Marsha’s childhood home, the very house where she had grown up. Agatha had lived just a few houses down, on the main road that connected to Marsha’s. The house had been recently renovated, though the work done on the kitchen was questionable at best. Their friendship had weathered more than 40 years, a testament to a bond that had somehow managed to endure the trials of life, change, and time. I often marvelled at this; such friendships were rare, and here was Agatha, lucky enough to have one with Marsha. Slam! Slam! Slam!
But Marsha’s return wasn’t merely a nostalgic homecoming. She had come to Jamaica for a sombre reason: to bury her mother. Mama Cee, who had raised Marsha and her six brothers in this very house, had spent the last decade in Marsha’s care in the United States. Agatha often spoke about how devoted Marsha had been to her mother. Now, with Mama Cee gone, the grief that enveloped Marsha was layered with complications, not the least of which stemmed from her family dynamics. Slam!Slam!Slam!
As I mulled over these thoughts, I stepped back inside the house to check if Agatha was ready.
Inside, the conversation had deepened. Marsha, her husband, and two of Marsha’s brothers were animatedly discussing something, and I lingered in the background, waiting for what felt like an eternity before it was time to leave. The dominoes echoed from outside, and I could hear the steady tick of the clock above the fridge, each second marking our slow approach to the next day’s events.
We would return tomorrow for the wake, the dead yaad, and with that knowledge, we said our goodbyes, a sense of anticipation and unease settling in.
—
Agatha’s form of support came in the shape of food, a nourishing balm for the soul. She had no job at the moment so she couldn’t offer money, but she had something better to provide: she could cook.
Early on Friday morning, pots and pans clinked together in the kitchen, the sound mingling with the gentle drip of water as Agatha prepared fried chicken and macaroni salad.
While she worked, I found myself drifting in and out of sleep. By the time I finally awoke, the kitchen was filled with the savoury aromas of her labour. Agatha had been chatting with Marsha throughout the day, but I hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation, too lost in my own thoughts.
When it was time to leave, Agatha had packed six large bowls of fried chicken and an enormous basin of macaroni salad. We loaded the car carefully, making sure everything was secure before heading back to Marsha’s house.
By the time we arrived around 9 PM, the road leading to Marsha’s was nearly unrecognizable, transformed into a crowded thoroughfare. Cars lined the street, stretching from the gate all the way down the adjacent main road, an ant-like swarm of people converging on the house.
“Look pon e straggla dem. A food dem come yah fi look enuh,” Agatha hissed her teeth in frustration at the sight of the crowd. I shook my head in response, more at what Agatha said rather than what was said. There was a small truck parked out front with an open back, transporting a drum set now being set up in the yard, and a tent was erected to accommodate the expected guests.
As I carefully navigated through the throng, Agatha hopped out of the car to find Marsha. I parked close to the gate, where people were already approaching to retrieve the food we had brought. Agatha had insisted we let them take it. “Mi do enough work now— a fi dem time,” she had said, her tone resolute.
The night unfolded in a blur of activity as I helped Marsha serve food. The line of people never seemed to diminish. At some point, I found myself simply scooping rice automatically, my muscles aching from what felt like hours spent on my feet.
Amidst the bustle, I couldn’t help but reflect on the intricacies of mourning. Here was a family grappling with the loss of their beloved mother—a woman cherished not only by her children but by her entire community. Each person in attendance was grieving in their own unique way. Yet, the realities of life didn’t fade away in the face of death. The infighting over finances, the spectre of old rivalries, the opportunistic grasp of those looking for a free meal—it was all still there, unchanged. Grief didn’t erase these complexities; it merely added another layer to them.
After a couple of hours, I had reached my limit. My back ached, my ankles protested, and I felt utterly spent. Yet Marsha, at least thirty years my senior, was still bustling around, full of energy and purpose. I signalled to her that I was leaving, then waited in my relative’s car for Agatha to finish.
When she finally got in, she was panting and visibly shaken.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, concern creeping into my voice.
“E bwoy have gun! E bwoy have gun!” she exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a rush. “E bwoy Everton.” Everton was one of Marsha’s brothers, the one who had lived with Mama Cee until she migrated. “Me and Leroy inna e car and him come up side a e car. Bout how we naafi worry bout nothing, and we protected inna dis. Den di rassclaat bwoy pull out e gun! Lif’ him shirt so we can see di gun! Fada Jesas, mi neva frighten so!” Agatha trembled as she recounted the encounter.
“Mi affi gwan like mi nuh frighten. Leroy a seh mi fi tell Marsha. Marsha already so stressed; dis a jus more stress.”
Agatha took deep breaths to calm her racing heart, but just then she spotted one of the brothers’ wives. She hopped out of the car to hold a conversation, her curiosity piqued. As they spoke, I saw the strain of familial tension in Agatha’s eyes, and it became clear that the rifts in Marsha’s family were deeper than I had initially grasped.
After a few minutes, Agatha returned, her expression a mixture of anxiety and frustration. “Mi ready fi go,” she said, and I shifted the car closer to the house, trying to escape the heaviness of the situation.
The drive home felt long and burdensome, filled with the unspoken weight of grief that lingered in the air.
—
The day of the funeral arrived, marked by a sombre stillness. Marsha stood before Mama Cee’s casket, her fingers delicately wiping away the makeup applied by the funeral home, a gentle act of defiance against the artificiality that surrounded death.
Inside the church, the pews were not as filled as one might expect given the turnout from the previous night. The ceremony unfolded with dignity and grace, though the sorrow of the occasion permeated every corner. As we gathered in the pews, the minister delivered a heartfelt eulogy, sharing stories of Mama Cee’s generosity, her fierce love for her family, and her unwavering spirit that had touched so many lives. Marsha sat with her brothers, her face a mixture of sorrow and pride, reflecting on the woman who had shaped her life.
After the service, we all processed outside, the sun glinting off the polished wood of the casket. I stood near Agatha, who whispered, “Marsha going be okay, yuh know?” I nodded, though I wasn’t so sure. The heaviness of loss weighed on her, but I could see the strength that lay beneath the surface, a strength built over decades of trials.
The burial site was set under a large, shady tree, and as the casket was lowered into the ground, the sounds of muffled sobs filled the air. The family gathered around, some throwing dirt in the ground on the casket, while others stood back, holding each other tightly as if drawing strength from one another. I felt an overwhelming urge to comfort Marsha, but I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment.
As we walked away from the gravesite, Agatha squeezed my hand, her eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and weariness. “Life just too complicated sometimes,” she murmured. “Marsha have fi go back to America after dis, and di whole family a fight over Mama Cee’s sintin. How dat fair?”
“A so life go,” I replied softly. “Grief brings out the worst in people sometimes.” I thought of how the past few days had unfolded, each interaction layered with tension and unresolved issues. It was a pattern that played out in families everywhere, but it still felt particularly poignant in this moment.
We made our way back to the car, the sun now blazing overhead, and I could see Marsha’s brothers congregating, some arguing, others deep in thought. I knew that the funeral wouldn’t resolve anything; it would only serve as a temporary pause in a series of complex dynamics that had existed long before Mama Cee’s passing.
As we drove away, I caught a glimpse of Marsha standing alone beside the grave, a solitary figure wrapped in her grief. I felt a pang of sorrow for her, a woman caught in a web of family strife and loss. I wished I could reach out, but the distance between us felt insurmountable at that moment.
“Mi proud a Marsha though,” Agatha said as we pulled onto the main road. “She a strong woman. Di way she handle everyting.”
I nodded, recognizing the truth in her words. Marsha had indeed shown incredible resilience, facing the complexities of her family with a grace that belied the turmoil beneath.
As we drove on, the sights of Jamaica swept past us—the colourful houses, the vibrant market stalls, and the endless horizon of blue sky. I realised that life would continue, even in the wake of loss. People would find ways to cope, to heal, and to support one another despite their differences.
“Yuh think she’ll be okay?” I asked, turning briefly to face Agatha.
“Yea man, she will be. After a while, all di fighting and the drama will settle down. Marsha a warrior. She will find her way through.”
Agatha’s confidence provided a glimmer of hope, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe, just maybe, Marsha would emerge stronger from this.
In the end, mourning was not just about saying goodbye. It was about understanding the legacy of love and strength left behind, even amidst the fractures of family ties. I took a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of gratitude for my own family—however imperfect—and for the relationships that sustained us through our own trials. The echoes of the past would always be there, but they didn’t have to define the future.
And so, as we drove into the sunset, I held onto that thought—a different kind of mourning, intertwined with resilience, love, and hope for tomorrow.