“Mau ain’t got no business being dead.”
Those are the words I uttered out loud through ragged breaths while running on the treadmill this morning. I woke up rather heavy today and I couldn’t quite figure out why. I got up anyway and did my morning devotion and said a prayer and went on about my routine. Somewhere between mile two and three, I remembered that today was July 6th.
“Mau” is short for Maurice. My cousin who passed on July 6, 2025. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Then I remembered in an instant. It was like my heart broke all over again.
Thinking about Maurice almost instantly led me back to his mother, my godmother, Aunt Shirley. We lost her on January 31, 2025. You could say 2025 did her worst on my family. She also has no business being dead.
Grief is strange.
It isn’t something I feel every single day.
It’s the little things.
It’s a song.
It’s a pair of nice sneakers.
It’s Psalm 91.
It’s macaroni and cheese.
It’s dipping my medium-cooked steak in ranch dressing.
It’s randomly thinking about my other cousins that I don’t talk to nearly as much as I should.
It’s subconsciously cheering for the Dallas Cowboys even though it goes against everything I believe.
It’s thinking about Mau’s two older brothers and then thinking about my little sister and how I couldn’t imagine life without her.
It’s telling someone “I love you more” when they say love me.
I thought about each of those seemingly little things all day today. I wondered how my cousin, Mau’s daughter, was doing today. I thought about texting her to tell her I love her. Then I wondered if that was necessary – if it would matter to her. I decided to text her. Grief or not – I do love her, and I hope she had a million reasons to smile today anyway.
Reflecting on Mau and Aunt Shirley caused me to recall my recent visit to California. We spent a week catching up and fellowshipping with my dad’s side of the family. We drove by my grandmother’s old house on Georgia Street in Vallejo. She’s been gone for 26 years, but when we came through the light and rolled up on that house – I felt 14 all over again.
I found myself searching for a happy memory of her, and landed on the last time I saw her. Healthy (at least I thought so anyway), happy and waving at us from the back patio as we headed off to the airport. That’s how I’ve seen her in my head for 26 years. And that’s how I pray I always remember her.
I sat with that heavy feeling all day today. Couldn’t quite shake it. And it wasn’t necessarily sad – just heavy. Perhaps a longing. A longing for memories I didn’t get the chance to make, moments I wish they’d seen or the all too familiar words I wish I’d said.
I wonder what one is to do with all of that grief.
I wonder how others who share this specific grief with me are handling it at different points in their journey.
I wonder when it stops feeling heavy.
And then, the unfortunate but true answer breaks through the dense fog my brain has been in all day.
Time.
It doesn’t heal all wounds, but it does make them hurt less.
I realized that the feeling I had when I thought about Mau and Aunt Shirley this morning felt significantly heavier than the tug at my heart when remembering my grandmother. And not because she didn’t mean as much, but because I’ve had longer to sit with it. I’ve had more time for the stories I hear about her and the memories I have of her to finally make me smile rather than cry. Even let out a laugh depending on the story.
I realize that I might cry a little longer for Mau and Aunt Shirley. But I also realize that thanks to the kind of people they were, I can also smile through those tears.
Sitting at my desk writing, I look up to see a card I pinned to the wall. It’s dated May 6, 2017. It’s a congrats graduate card I found stuck to the back of a set of photos last year. My Aunt’s elegant cursive writing is underneath the card’s standard message. She was reminding me who I belonged to and who should always guide my path. She reminded me of the light and greatness I carried within me – and told me she loved me more.
My cousin had a one thousand watt smile. It lit up whatever room he was in. He never had a bad thing to say about a single soul – even if they deserved it. He listened intently when you spoke to him. He was filled with encouraging and affirming words for the people he loved. He had the best sneaker collection this side of the Mississippi.
I took those tangible and mental memories of my aunt and my cousin, and I let them push me through the rest of my day. If they were here, they would hug me and tell me I could face whatever waits on the other side of this grief. Outside of my mother and father, my aunt was likely my biggest cheerleader. There wasn’t a single milestone in my life that she would’ve missed. I know she would’ve wanted me to publish this. Even if she never read a single word, she would encourage me to make my voice heard and tell whoever she met that she had a niece who was a writer.
That moved me to action. It reminded me that just yesterday I was combing through my notes trying to figure out what my next Reflect piece would be. I didn’t think I had anything worth saying.
Then I woke up this morning feeling heavy.
Maybe grief isn’t always asking us to fix it. Maybe sometimes it’s simply asking us to remember.
Today, remembering became writing.
And if I’m honest… Mau still ain’t got no business being dead.
Neither does Aunt Shirley.
But because they lived the way they did, because they loved the way they did, they are still shaping the way I move through this world. They’re still giving me stories to tell, reasons to keep going, and reminders to love people while I can.
Maybe that’s what we do with grief.
We carry it.
And, when we can, we turn it into something that keeps the people we love alive just a little while longer.
Relatable Rhythms 