An Incomplete Loss

Fariha Rahman

I silence my cell phone periodically

to curb my addiction to my phone screen.

One of the many goals

I had for 2020.

Because my cell phone was silent,

I missed twelve calls, forcing the individual

on the other end to call non-traditionally.

I answered the ancient landline

to hear crying, no, sobbing.

Hello?!

No one was answering.

I checked the caller ID.

It was from New York,

which meant family.

Alarmed, I started yelling.

Hello! What’s wrong?! Hello!

The peripheral crying increased in intensity,

while the person on the phone was mumbling

something. As I continued to scream,

the landline disconnected suddenly.

I ran to get my cell phone,

realizing the missed calls

were from my cousin. When I was

about to dial again, I received a text.

He’s dead.

My stomach dropped,

like that ride at the fair where

they take you all the way to the top,

and then suddenly you drop.

The tears were streaming down my cheeks,

fearing how many more people will I lose

in the coming weeks? I cried harder when

I could not attend his funeral due to quarantine.

A few days later, I was on a video call,

watching my uncle’s service

on my computer screen.

I should have been there personally.

Instead, I could only internally scream,

receive directions from others to grieve,

and remember my uncle through conversations

that resurfaced some precious memories.

Like my cell phone that I silenced periodically,

I stopped feeling any emotion temporarily.

The loss felt so incomplete, especially given it was

a pandemic that took a loved one from me.

-Fariha Rahman is a senior from Raleigh, NC, pursuing a major in Health Policy & Management from the Gillings School of Global Public Health and minors in Biology and Chemistry.-