When Grief Sings Back
A song at my son's middle school concert brought me back to the daughter I lost and the love that remains
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
The hubris of youth and young motherhood.
In:
Growth and discovery after loss.
Entering:
Awakening to the rebirth of mid-life.
It’s been a long time since I had a public breakdown.
I did not expect one to happen at a middle school end-of-year concert, one of those seemingly ordinary obligations tucked into the chaos of May-cember, when everyone is just trying to survive the endless string of events. It had been even longer since I’d cried the kind of tears that well up heavily, drop onto your skirt, and leave dark circles spreading through the fabric before fading away. But this grief, the kind that left me ugly crying on the bleachers, would not be ignored.
On that balmy night in the school gym, I didn’t try to stop the tears. I didn’t force myself to perform composure out of some misplaced loyalty to decorum. I sat there in public, fully aware of how I must have looked and unwilling to apologize for it.
My daughter is dead, and whether it happened fourteen days or fourteen years ago, my grief over losing her deserved to be felt.
It was what my body demanded of me in that moment. I let it move through me and let others think what they would. I’ve had a lot of practice learning how to manage grief as it comes. It has been fourteen years, after all.
Usually, the bands play their selections with the typical amount of middle school nerves, anxious looks, and missteps that are still endearing at that age. We clap wildly for their effort, for the hours of practice and the courage to perform, hoping our encouragement stays with them in some small way. I stand and wave at my son when I catch his eyes scanning the crowd because, at twelve years old, the reassurance that your mom sees you in a sea of other students still matters.
But I didn’t know a special performance by students with disabilities in a blended choir was on the agenda that evening. While it’s not uncommon to combine band and choir performances, that had not been the case in the years we’d been attending our school’s concerts. I hadn’t scanned the digital program, so when the choir launched into the Beatles’ “Blackbird,” I came completely undone.
My mind flashed instantly back to 2010, when we held our daughter’s celebration of life while she was still with us. She had been diagnosed with a terminal illness just months before. We didn’t know how long we would have, and we wanted friends and family to love her, honor her, and pay their respects while she was still here on this earth.
There were pony rides, face painting, a bounce house, and even a puppet show. But the moment I remember most came when the wife of one of my husband’s colleagues played a montage of family photos set to the song that had come to live in my heart for our beautiful girl: “Blackbird.”
The song’s promise of broken wings, flight, and eventual freedom felt unbearable and hopeful all at once.
Tay-Sachs had already robbed her of the ability to sit, stand, walk, and talk. Her cognition was fading, and I knew no reprieve would come for her in this life. She would spend the rest of her life waiting to be free of this cruel disease.
Years after her passing, on her birthday, I had a portion of those lyrics tattooed on my arm, along with four blackbirds: a mom and dad sitting on a branch with another smaller bird, representing her sister, and our Miss Elliott blackbird flying away freely. At the time, our son, whose concert I was attending now, had not yet been born to his birth family, let alone joined ours.
The blended choir belted out the song from the risers on the gym floor. As my tears fell, the kind woman next to me noticed and began rubbing her hand over the small of my back.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“My daughter died and I have these lyrics tattooed on my arm for her,” I told her.
“It’s a perfectly natural response,” she said.
It was so connected, supportive, and genuine that I had to suppress a small laugh. If she only knew how much of my life has been spent surrounded by other bereaved parents, both personally and professionally. How extensively I’ve written about grief. How many workshops I’ve attended and groups I’ve led. And still, this simple kindness from a stranger meant so much to me, fourteen years on.
At Miss Elliott’s celebration of life, we were given a copy of the video montage on DVD. It has been sixteen years, and I’ve never watched it. That song, which once made me feel connected to some hopeful but unknowable future for our daughter beyond this realm, has mostly brought heartbreak since she died.
But while I cried watching those children sing, my heart also rose for their confidence and grace, for the crowd cheering them on, and for the sound they created for all of us to witness in that one magical moment.
Life is full of moments like that, when heartbreak and beauty arrive at once.
After the concert, the few hundred of us dispersed, spilling out through the school doors and back into our separate lives, into the warm dark of an ordinary night.
Follow Becky (A Seat at the Table) on Substack and Instagram.
 | A guest post by
|