When I think of personal loss, a few beloved come to mind..

Most recently would be a dear lovely friend gone too soon and the Pinnacle of her life, snatched rather than lost. For you see, when you think of a life taken (a terrible thought process in the least) it is hard to go past the grieving stage of denial (i might have been upset; at what or whom, i couldn’t say)

Margaret Lee Runbeck once said that silence makes the real conversation between friends, not the saying but the never needing to say anything is what counts. This I’ve come to discover to be very true with respect to a mutual friend. Every time we meet, the story is right there in the eyes, and we hug for an “IDK” amount of time that under any other circumstances would be considered a bromance gone wrong. Like i mentioned, you have to understand that when there is a plethora of emotions to convey, words might get in the way. Just like lyrics without the rhythm some reminisce may fall short of the describing the true memories…

I sometimes think of some memories as rituals, ranging from small silly jokes or names like “FBM” that stick forever or ritual brochette sharing pics, not forgetting having a flask tea at a house party (that’s right, many a party were set up to accommodate tea for FBM). The earth and child crew probably remember the simple beans lunch memories and naps. And almost everyone knew the strange love for the purple color. I’d love to mention the time we spend (rather crashed) Christmas but like a mentioned … lyrics without the rhythm

“Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” – Erich Fromm

When i think about my mum, its always a selfish thought involving her and i, like i was an only child (an illogical thought for a 7th born) i don’t know if everyone thinks this, but i was my madre’s favourite and my siblings can vouch for me (but lets not ask them). Of course i’ve failed at calligraphy and french and should be terribly embarrassed by my non existent French being a child of a French literature professor. i blame it on boarding school and seminary life that left me with a little latin that cant save me from starvation.

Mamushka contributes about 100 percent of my nostalgic love for traditional music (Kayirebwa and Kamaliza played nonstop and on repeat). My illogical favoritism assumptions are based on the fact that we spent the most time together (about 6 straight months in the same room). When i was in primary class 3, mama and i got into bus accident that had us hospitalized for about half a year, and whereas i was lucky to come out with a few scars and pieces of glass on my face, she faced the brutal recovery from metal crews to hold her shoulder in place but even worse her daughter (my sister) Grace. It was this healing time we spent learning how to walk again in physiotherapy that i consider naively ignoring the fact that she was probably healing from more than just the physical.

Mukayiranga Grace was a sister that could have been me, one whose voice I now struggle to remember, let alone her face. She was much older than i was, second born and toughest in the family but she wasn’t as lucky as I was from the accident. Scratch everything, i don’t feel like sharing anymore

At the beginning of this blog, i had no preconceived ideas where this was gonna go at the time..Tying to trace the evolution of my feelings to find the words that best matched hasn’t done me any justice either.. words and i are definitely an odd pair, after all what are words but Melancholic Melody pegged with the opposite of pathos