THE last time I saw or spoke to Colleen Harewood, before a few nights after my son’s death, she was in her early 20s and living in Kitty.
I saw and spoke to her again shortly after his funeral via video call on the messenger app and she is in her mid-60s, hair totally grey and as beautiful as I always remembered her to be.
I was responding to several missed calls from Colleen, who was one of so many people I know seeking to reach out and offer condolences following the news of my son, Ishmael’s death in a car crash.

Like so many people, Colleen too freely admitted to not really knowing to say beyond offering her sympathy, particularly as she had never lost a child and could hardly imagine what I was going through.

She had, however, lost her second husband and knew what it was like to lose someone near and dear. So we exchanged stories. She told me about her husband’s death and the circumstances leading up to it and I told her in graphic detail about my son’s accident and all that we had learned about what took place the night prior to his death.
There was no mistaking our shared grief at my son’s passing. At one time, as I spoke, she said her skin was ‘growing’ and her lovely face clouded with anguish that touched me deeply.
She then complimented me on my ability to even talk about Ishmael’s death telling me that many people cannot do that, adding, “You’re a strong woman”. I nodded, not feeling particularly strong but feeling that what strength I did exhibit came from the spirit of my dead son, who seemed to be helping me even in death.
The goodwill he so easily attracted while alive was clearly evident as strangers, neighbours and friends alike stopped by our house to offer their sympathy – some to later attend the “wake” – each and every one with a positive word to say about my son.

It buoyed me up. It made me smile and it certainly lightened the visceral pain I felt when the doctor told me the words I times in movies, never thinking that one day I would hear them myself, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that your son just passed”.
I related all of this to Colleen as we reminisced about our time together here in Guyana, when she would expertly braid my thick, natural hair in the exotic styles she would discover in the “Africa” magazine.

At the time I was married to her cousin, who was abusive and I was actually staying with his father, who rescued me when I was forced to run from home with my baby son and only the clothes on my back.

And so Colleen and I talked on – she telling me of some of her marital experiences, how she coped as a single mother of five children, doing two jobs and adding, “I’ve been working two jobs since I’ve been in this country”

Her witty no-nonsense persona came over crisply in the way she described events and people and her responses to them. And it was clear, early in our conversation that we were like-minded.
We laughed, joked and shared our memories, eventually forced to bring our chat to a halt when we had been talking – well over two hours – and that she had been in bed when I called, while I had slept early and just woken up and was unable to go back to sleep.

After my talk with Collen, subsequent similarly deep conversations with two of my cousins – Jeune and Carmen – and my wonderfully supportive niece, Lauren, all in the UK, I was reminded of something I read: “Finding similarities between your own grief experience and the experiences of others can help connect you in understanding to both the universality of loss, and uniqueness of your own grief.”

A this point I must mention Margot Boyce-Byass, Shirvington Hannays, Dawn Alexis Braithwaite, my two friends– both named Patricia – neighbours, friends and my remaining eight children, for their unwavering support.
A heartfelt thank you to you all, who have helped and are still helping me heal and reminding me of the proverb, “Grief shared is halved. Joy shared is doubled”.