SHADOWS

Death has been a peculiar companion in my life—arguably one of my longest relationships, right up there with my barbers (shoutout to the fade!). My earliest memory of it is surreal: being abruptly pulled from a church pew as a kid, maybe around eight or nine, to help carry my great-grandmother’s casket. No preparation, just told to help and smile. I didn’t really understand what I was doing, just that I was expected to show up and support. Years later, I looked back and wondered why it was me—why I was chosen to take on that role when I barely grasped the gravity of the moment. The memory lingers, a hazy mixture of duty and confusion.

Fast forward to 2018. I was living in Seattle when I got the call that my grandmother was in the hospital. At first, I hesitated to fly back. I had just visited a few months prior for a wedding, and I struggled with the thought of seeing her in a weakened state. The last memory I had of her was at home, asking for help with something on her computer—so normal, so her. But I was convinced that being there would somehow give her strength, or at least that my presence was necessary. When I arrived, though, it just felt heavy. Sadness hung in the air, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place despite my intentions. By the time I’m at the repass with my mom, I couldn’t help but wonder why I had forced myself to be there, when staying in Seattle might have been kinder to myself. It felt like just another instance of overextending to prove my belonging.

Loss and family ties have always been complex for me. My relationship with my grandfather is a faded memory—just knowing that my red arm hair came from him. My other great-grandmother, and then my Dorothy, passed around the same time, and I’ve held onto the whimsical idea that she finally found her yellow brick road. Then there’s my Uncle Alan—a figure I admired without fully understanding why. He was different, unapologetically himself, and in my young mind, that made him legendary. I didn’t know what “gay” meant back then, but I knew that Uncle Alan and I shared a kindred spirit. As I redecorate my apartment for the 18th time, I realize how much his creativity and sense of individuality influenced me. He was a "Bruno" in our family—a vague reference versus a full discussion, and I wonder if he felt the same isolation I do now.

When COVID hit, death seemed to follow me everywhere. I found myself praying for people’s spirits to find peace, despite a teacher once telling me that it was pointless to pray for the dead—it was already decided. Maybe it was a lesson in letting go, but it never really stuck. I kept thinking about how easily people slip through the cracks, how I’d sporadically check on one of my aunts only to find out she had passed away in 2024—and no one thought to invite me to her funeral. That hurt. To know that I ultimately flew back when I didn’t want to. But when I was finally close enough to show up without hesitation, I wasn’t even considered. The weight of that realization stung in a way that death itself hadn’t. It’s strange, this feeling of being inclusively ostracized—knowing I’m family, but not really part of the circle. I’ve always kept one foot in the door, whether out of hope or a sense of obligation. My Aunt Sierra and Uncle Alan taught me that sometimes the most marginalized people still hold space in their families, even if it’s more out of habit than acceptance. They taught me that being different doesn’t mean being less, and that leaving a mark isn’t about fitting in. Maybe that’s the lesson I needed all along: to create my own space rather than forcing myself into one that was never truly mine.

Death and belonging intertwine in confusing ways. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to reconcile the expectations of family with my own need for peace. It’s not just about loss—it’s about figuring out where I fit when the dust settles. My relationship with death has always been messy and unresolved, partly because the people I’ve lost were often the ones I never really got to know. Maybe if I understood death better, it would hurt less—but I doubt it. The unknown carries a chaos of its own. There’s an odd comfort in realizing that not everyone who leaves leaves entirely. Sometimes it’s their influence that lingers—the way Uncle Alan’s creative spirit lives on in my constant redecorating or how Sierra’s persistence makes me try to keep that foot in the door. It’s a chaotic peace, holding onto those who’ve passed while navigating the unpredictable ties of those still here. Maybe one day I’ll find a balance between honoring those memories and building my own, but for now, I’m just here—somewhere between remembering and becoming.