WE gather now in the register of the familiar,
not to announce beginnings,
not to scatter rice at the steps of a church
or throw bouquets of flowers,
nor to cradle the cry of a newborn.
We gather to speak of those who have gone,
to name them in the hush of our voices,
to carry their absence as a litany of disbelief.
The telephone rings,
and it is not joy that answers,
but the measured tone of another departure.
The news comes shrouded,
like letters sealed in black ink,
each name a stone placed upon the altar of memory.
We know more endings than beginnings,
more funerals than weddings,
more graves than cradles.
The balance has shifted,
and our conversations are weighted with loss.
We are archivists of absence,
keepers of obituaries,
scribes of the gone.
Yet in this solemn rhythm, there is ceremony.
We speak their names as though lighting candles,
each syllable a flame against the encroaching dark.
We remember the laughter that once filled rooms,
the hands that once clasped ours,
the stories that once carried us through the night.
In one tradition, the tolling of bells,
the slow procession through streets,
the reverence of pews beneath arches.
In another, the solemnity that gathers at dusk,
the congregation of kin beneath wide skies,
the dance that insists life must be honoured even in death.
Two rhythms, two ceremonies,
woven together in the fabric of our mourning.
We do not speak of beginnings lightly now,
for they are rare,
and when they come, they are fragile,
like blossoms in late autumn.
But endings—
they arrive with certainty,
With the gravity of Earth closing over wood,
with the silence of a room emptied of its familiar voice.
Still, we gather.
Still, we speak.
Still, we hold one another in the current of remembrance.
For though the news is grave,
though the balance tilts towards death,
our voices are not extinguished.
They bear the honour of the departed
and the strength of the living.
This is our ceremony:
to speak of the dead,
to honour their passage,
to weave their memory into the fabric of our days.
We are not merely mourners.
We are custodians of continuity,
guardians of the fragile thread that binds the living to the departed.
And so, let the gathering continue.
Let the phone ring,
let the news arrive.
We will answer with solemnity,
with dignity,
with the breath of reflection.
We will speak of endings
until beginnings return.
* Siji Atagbon