One Wedding and A Funeral

There is something very odd, very off balanced of mixing the two prime moments of sorrow and joy in one night.
Amina's grandfather died.
So i went to the funeral at Ibrahim Mosque on the corniche in Alexandria.

I dressed in black from head to toe, wrapped a black shawl around my shoulders, and walked down to the mosque, knowing in the back of my head that this is the first funeral i've been to, and the first time i've dressed in black for six months since the accident.
But people move on.

Amina sat outside the tent, curled up on a chair, shoulders slumping, looking lost.
I sat next to her, squeezed her knee.
"No," she said, "khalass," and with that word i knew. She couldn't cry, i couldn't comfort her, he was old and sick, this was expected, the first funeral wasn't, but she had not been there, she had been tied up to an IV slipping into unconsciousness.
So, yes, this was her first funeral.
"I can't cry," she kept saying, "you know, it's like cutting your arm off and then getting a scratch, you just don't feel it."
I nodded. I understood.
And we sat watching her mother's face crumble.
The last time i saw her mother cry was six months ago, and things come back to you, no matter how you try to shut them out.

All i have is this image of Mohab's mother sitting and staring at the tent ceiling, as women around her comfort her and Amina's mother cries, but all she can say is "Thank God. Thank God. Thank God."
Severe shock.
And then his brother walked into the tent, walked towards her, she opened her arms, and he fell into her, crying.

I remember that image and blink.

I cannot cry. This is someone else's funeral.
People move on.

We talk about idle things, about what i will be wearing for the wedding i will be going to in one hour, and the fact that she can't go, now that her grandfather's died, even though it's her best friend's wedding.

How could she go?

You see, it was supposed to be her turn, her wedding, we were supposed to be her bridesmaids , and then the accident happened, and life had to start all over again for her, and people move on.
Now her friends are getting married before her, even those that used to be single are in relationships (hi) and she's still stuck there.
She wanted to, but she couldnt go to the wedding. And we left it at that.

We sat inside, and listened to the Koran reading, i stared at the blue tent walls in front of me, and at one point it hit me.
I am sitting in the exact same seat.
In the exact same tent.
Staring at the same wall.
As I was six months ago.
I stare at the old and miserable faces in front of me.
I remember the way i read the Koran through my tears, crying and smiling at all the ironic passages about death and passing, catching people watching my face with concern, used up all the tissue.

And now, i watch the face of the grandmother, exhausted, old, hopeless, who's lost her mate, the father of her daughters, and i think of myself sixty years from now, mourning the death of my boy, and i can't take it, i can't take it, i can't do this.

I tug at the neck of my tshirt, can't take this, Amina sits next to me and I see the scar on her hand, can't do this, I want to run out and run home, can't breathe, it's time to go to the wedding and laugh and be joyful for someone else, can't do this, i need to call him, i need to get out, can't take this.

So i walk out. And i walk home. And it's much easier to hold the tears back when you wade through crowded streets and have to think about the cars behind you and not tripping on your skirt.

Two hours later, i was dressed and primped and flashing my photo smile at the lavish wedding, where everyone who is everyone was there to make sure that everyone else knew they were there. The bride looked like a barbie doll, the groom looked happy, everyone danced in a circle around them and clapped with joy, and for a few hours i can honestly say that i forgot and had fun.

Except that in the back of my head, i knew someone was missing. Two people were left out of all the group photos we were taking. I couldn't put my finger on it, but i seemed to be missing someone.
I checked my phone for missed calls, went through the phonebook for any forgotten names.
Who was it. There was someone I always used to dance like an idiot with.

Who was it?

At the end of the night, we all danced in a corner, as the flamboyant singer worked the crowd on the other side of the room, but we had our own little private party, Roba, Sarah, Moni, Nada, Kenzo, Amr, Mokhtar, Adham, Sherif, Sara and me.
At one point i was dancing with Sherif this crazy dance we made up years ago, and I did this move that Mohab had always done, Sherif laughed, and i just couldn't.
I stopped, and turned to look at the crowd around me, thought:

"This isn't right. This doesn't feel right. He should be there."

I looked at their faces, so happy, people move on, and i just couldn't shake it.

Because no matter how strong you are, no matter how much time you've had to grieve and shout and cry your eyes out, the absence is still felt, the noise around you is missing a certain voice, the music is just a little bit off key, colours seem paler, because he is not there.

and no matter which way you look at it, a wedding and a funeral in one night is a little too much to take.