Don’t Let Your Emotional Burdens Get Too Heavy

Learn to let it go — A lesson from my mother

If you ask me how I felt when the news came my way, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how much the suitcase I packed for 3 days weighed, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how it felt to go back to the old house where we used to play, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how I felt when everyone screamed and I had nothing to say, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how I felt digging holes in the clay, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how I felt when they cried in dismay, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask how my shoulder felt where the coffin lay, I would say… Heavy.

If you ask me how I felt all throughout that day, I would say… Heavy.

Heavy… That is the most appropriate word I can think of to describe how I felt on those specific days in June 2019. I was a 23-year-old living with his parents but considered an adult by all other standards. We had enjoyed KFC the night before and my stomach was heavy with chicken, grease, and oil. I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in my bed, counting the sheep leap over my head, their woolly coats turned to crispy chicken.

“You ate too much.” My mind scolded my stomach, “Next time eat less you fat bas — ”

Our land phone rang from downstairs cutting off my usual self-battery. I slogged to the phone but my mother was already there, the receiver to her ear.

She was always the one to pick up the call. In a house of introverts, she was the only one brave enough to make a sound. She used to joke that she was locked in a house built for the deaf and dumb. But this time there was no “Oh hello! How are you?” or at least a, “Sorry wrong number.”

This time it was silence. A thick oozing silence that spread from the receiver, through my mother, and to every corner of the house, surrounding us all in its icy embrace.

“Mami passed away.”

I did not know how to react or what to say. I felt a little confused, a little sad, and a little upset, but the one emotion that bubbled to the surface was heavy.

Mami lived in Thanamalwilla, five hours away from our home. We packed our bags in a rush — mom told me to pack for two days but I knew we’d be there for three. Two days to mourn and one more day to say goodbye. Shirts, trousers, shorts, and four pairs of underwear just in case, all packed in a brown suitcase topped off with an old ragged banyan and paint-stained pants. As I zipped it all around and carried it down to our car, I noticed it felt unusually heavy.

We left in the dead of night. Everyone was dressed but I felt like a child still wearing my pajamas being taken by the sandman to lands unknown. I remember staring out the car window watching the world wave goodbye. I saw the silhouettes of blocky buildings changing shape and warp into triangular trees. My dad was in the driver’s seat, a low grumble escaping his lips, maybe canceled appointments or emails he had to write. My mom was in the back seat, weaving her fingers through my little brother’s hair as he drifted off to sleep. My mom’s eyes stared out the window at the shifting scenery, but unlike me, she stared out at infinity, her thoughts floating far away. None of us in the car felt sad or wanted to cry, all we felt at that moment was heavy.

We arrived at the crack of dawn at a house long forgotten. The house had aged over our decade long hiatus. The path of bricks that used to guide her guests to the door had crumbled to gravel. I saw the wrinkles snaking through the white plaster walls, the windows cloudy with dusty cataracts, and the broken metal bones, eaten away by rust. Her garden once neatly tucked in with hairpins of roses and anthuriums was wild and overgrown. This place had changed.

I stepped out of the car and nostalgia took my hand and took me away to a time where children played with coconut shells and string. The sweet and spicy smell of “Parippu” (Dhal) called out from the kitchen as five grandmas giggled at me, a chubby cheese ball, saying, “You have to grow big and strong. Here have one more bite and just one more.”

I shook my head and the flashes were gone, back to staring at a house that’s suffered alone, and with age, it had grown heavy.

We walked inside the house, me, my brother, father, and mother in order. I was embraced by my grandmothers and great grandmother, “Achchi Amma, Chitti, Podi Achchi, and Loku Achchi Amma”, Mami’s three sisters and mother. They too had aged, faces dragged down by three-quarters of a century of life with wisdom in their eyes. They greeted me with a smile, embraced me, and held me tight, pinched my brother’s nose, and kissed my father’s cheek. But when it was mother’s turn, it was a wordless wave of emotion. It was a wail of tears, rushing down as the flood gates that stood strong for so long burst open.

I once asked my mother why women cry and she told me it was to share and comfort. Maybe it was the comfort of my mother, or a connection women have for one another, but they knew it was time to cry. I looked at them and to this day I wonder how they can show such resonance without exchanging a word. I knew I should cry with them, show my emotions, but like my brother and father we didn’t feel sad. All we felt was heavy.

Inside the house, the main hall was empty, a space cleared for Mami when she returned from her visit to the coroner. I had my breakfast and changed into the old ragged banyan and paint-stained pants. It was time for the men to do their part. We walked into the forest to prepare a place for Mami to rest. There was no graveyard or family cemetery, just nature returned to nature to be reborn anew. The forest bowed to our rusty tools borrowed from local paddy farmers as we cut our way through the grass and rotten leaves. We reached a clearing where the memories of the past were laid to rest over generations, the place where grandfather and his father and his father before him stayed. We dug her bed deep, the soil and mud clinging to our clothes — thick. My arms ached and my entire body felt heavy.

Mami returned home at 3:00 p.m. followed by a procession of screams.

“මගේ දෙයියෝ ඇයි ඔයා අපිව දාල ගියේ ?” (Why did you leave us?!)

“මට කිව්වෙ නැත්තෙ ඇයි අම්මේ?!” (Why didn’t you tell us anything?!)

“එයා මැරිලා නෑ අනේ, එයා තාම නිදි!” (She’s not dead, she’s just sleeping!)

“මට ජීවත්වෙලා වැඩක් නෑ !අනේ මාවත් වලදාන්න!” (There is no use living! Bury me with her!)

Voices bellowed through the hall for two days and two nights. I remember my mom once told me this was a custom. Letting all the grief and words unsaid go before the body was buried. I heard the cries, but I had nothing to say, I just watched her lay there in perfect stillness — a picture framed in velvet and string, inside a wooden box carved by hasty hands.

A hundred faces came, cried, and went back outside — all blurred into one. I sat in the corner staring at Mami, eyes red, my hair a mess, and my limbs aching with fatigue. I didn’t feel sad or angry, I just felt heavy.

When the third day dawned we knew it was time. Sons and grandsons gathered around and closed the casket as the hall filled with screams of life, death, regret, and one last goodbye. We pulled the box to our shoulders. Splinters dug into my skin, my arms shook with strain, and my vision was blurred by the yellow crust. But through all the pain and frustration, all I felt was heavy.

We carried her from the house and through the forest, over the dying leaves that cried out under our feet. The great maw lay open, the same as we had left ready to accept what was meant to be. We lowered her down and everyone picked up the soil under their feet. Fist-full after fist-full of soil fell from shaky hands as friends and family bid goodbye to Mami in silent prayer. I too poured a hand full of dirt into the grave. It felt heavy.

That day we returned home after a five-hour drive and I went to my room and laid in bed. I thought of those three days, about all I had seen, and slowly, my eyes grew heavy. When I woke again it was the night, the next day. My mother was there by my bed, her fingers weaving through my hair, her eyes gently watching over me.

“How do you feel…?” she asked and I replied.

“Heavy.”

“It’s brave to be strong and carry everything inside. But don’t let it get too heavy. Share with me and I will help you carry it.”

And so I cried. I cried for an hour as she sang an old lullaby. I felt… sad, angry, regretful, confused, afraid, guilty, depressed, worried, frustrated, anxious, bravado, resent, and pain. They all fell with my tears and I was no longer heavy.

Thank you for reading and have a great day!