I love my grandmother, Nikki Giovanni, & the scent of life after death.

for colored girls, who considered masking, when grief became too much.

On December 9th, 2024, Nikki Giovanni made her transition out of this plane. I remember seeing the news as I doomscrolled through my Instagram feed. “another soup recipe, pregnancy announcement, fit check, community event, a picture of Nikki Giovanni, hold up, Nikki Giovanni died!?”. I felt a wave of grief rush over me, how connected we feel to writers, artists, activists, theorists, who are thinking about, fighting for, writing about, our shared experiences. How connected we feel to folks we have never met. Within one refresh of the page my entire feed was covered in pictures of her, her with afros and big smiles, her in old age with smile lines, her speaking at Podiums, leaning back into chairs, showing off her “thug life” tattoo, so many moments.

my favorite photo of Nikki Giovanni, photo edited by me for the Instagram page of my collective, The Lotus Collective (@tlc.meetups)

I remember the very first poem I had ever read by Nikki Giovanni, Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day, I remember how it made me feel to imagine cotton candy melting down sewers in the rain, and how the line “I am not an easy woman
to want” made me feel, at eleven years old. I said a prayer for her, that her soul traveled in peace, that her son and loved ones felt held, and that her work would live on. Then there was an abrupt pause: an image of my grandmother flashed in my mind. It was a glimpse of Nikki Giovanni’s hands in a photo that triggered this memory of my grandmother’s hands. Their hands were similar, they both had a pound cake complexion, wrinkles that told stories, and curved nails. Nikki’s hands reminded me of my grandmother’s hands. Then it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen her hands in almost five years.

Grief is silly like that, it makes you miss things like coughs, and sighs, and hands. A friend of mine recently spoke about how after experiencing a death so close, other deaths don’t really phase you anymore, and she was right. I haven’t grieved about anything, the way that I have grieved my grandmother. Mostly, in silence but still grieving, some days the load is light and there are just memories on my shoulders, other days it is so heavy that I feel it crushing me. Many people loved my grandmother. Her husband, her children, her other grandchildren, great-grandchildren, family, & friends. As a person who is still growing in being emotionally vulnerable in certain spaces, I have reserved my grief from being shared, I have masked, for years, how impactful this death feels to me. How unfair, and too soon it feels. How grandmothers should be able to live forever, how I want her to grandmother my children, and their children. How regret of time not spent and calls not made sometimes dance above my head at night. How when a matriarch dies, the branches of the family grow brittle, and crack off with each season. How I would give up anything for one more hug, something I’m not even a big fan of, hugging. How my mask, although dishonest, feels safe, because I don’t want people to relate to me because they didn’t have my grandmother. I have a brother, a host of cousins, parents, and even my partner who have all had the privilege of being loved by her, but all of our relationships are unique, so instead, I keep quiet about the grief. Masking feels safe, like armor.

a photo of my grandma, in all of her color, and laughter, and joy, and a glass of red wine, and beautiful fro.

My grandmother’s legacy smells like summer rain, Philadelphia Cream Cheese pound cake, Kate Spade’s ‘Walk on Air’ perfume, taco pie, and her breath after a glass or two of wine. This caused me to think about the scent of life after death. How Nikki Giovanni, Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde, and June Jordan’s legacy smell like freshly turned pages of a book, and hot tea. What would my family and friends say my legacy smelled like? I want to always be able to smell the scent of living on, I want to feel and taste life after death. Grief is silly like that, having us miss our ancestors in ways that make us want to hold onto to them with all five senses.

I’ll never forget how Bobby Humphrey’s- “The Trip”, played as I was awakened into the reality that you had left this plane. A morning in my life I’ll never forget. It smelled only of hardwood floors, probably because I kept my head down. I’ve dreamt of you sixteen times since then. Sixteen in depth and colorful dreams, as colorful as you are, sixteen moments that tasted like cotton candy on a rainy day, smelled like philosophy skin care products, sounded like smooth jazz and gospel, and felt like a warm embrace. I am not looking for it to be the same because it never will be, it is not meant to be. I was meant to experience you in the way that I did, when I did, and how I did, and nothing else. Thank you for living out loud, and for loving me. I’m working on taking the mask off, it is the only way I can reveal to the world who I am, so that I can get out of it all that I need.

“I am learning to live beyond fear by living through it. And in the process, learning to turn fury and my own limitations into some more creative energy.”

-Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals

Thank you for allowing me to light the flame of the metaphorical candle, in your honor, scented with notes of reverence, appreciation, and gratitude. I will call it “living on”.

I love you.

a photo of my grandma and I on one of my birthdays, with a cake baked homemade by her, as always.