The world was still spinning. Time was still ticking away with every infinitesimal fraction of a second. It surprises me that my heart has not forgotten how to beat, my lungs have not suddenly stopped filling with oxygen. I had thought loss would be time stopping, life-stilling, breathtaking literally.

Yet here I stand, blinking, breathing, seeing, walking, living… like the most important person in my life has not been taken from me. Right in front of the coffin, staring down at the lifeless body of my son and still there are no tears in my eyes; no trembling in my lips, no tremor in my knees, no excruciating pain clawing at my chest, just a hollow, earsplitting silence. Nothing but the sheer loudness of the emptiness that I feel within.

Nothing.

Somehow, that makes it all the more unbearable. Some people may argue that the loss of a soulmate is the hardest thing but I command to differ.

I do not think there is any pain as profound as that of a mother seeing her child, one that was pulled from her womb, placed in her arms, suckled at her breast, ate from her hands, sown years of weeping and laughter, sweat and hope into…lying in a coffin.

Reaching forward with steady hands, I pull the burial cloth over his body and nod to the pallbearers to set it in the ground. I want to be the last person to look upon his face, a herculean feat on its own as I had not even been allowed to attend the funeral. I had told my brothers that if they did not allow me then they would return to find my own dead body. They know I always keep my word.

I take a deep breath and finally peel my eyes away from my dead son. The canopies are filled with heartbroken friends and family members. His father is not here, but then he never was.

I lock eyes with the women of my compound, finding pity and disappointment there.

They do not believe that a mother should witness the burial of her child but I do not care for their opinions or superstitions; I saw him come into this world so I will witness his leaving. As the coffin is placed in the ground, I whisper his name sealing him inside with all of the pent-up grief that I cannot seem to muster,” Oladotun Keziah Fadare.”

I am reminded of the prophecy given to Mary, that a sword would pierce through her heart and finally I understand how she must have felt, watching her son, the fated savior of the world die before her eyes.

Although she is assured that he will return and that his mission is complete, she must bear this pain. The realization slowly begins to fill the void within me and I cannot help but smile bitterly. I know that I will meet my son again in heaven but still I mourn.

I turn my face to heaven and whisper a prayer for all mothers, present and future, that this cup passes over them and that they may never know what it is… to mourn a son.