My First Dance with Death
I remember the smell in the air. I remember the song the wind chime sang every time a strong breeze blew across the porch. I remember the heaviness that seemed to settle over everything. At six years old, I didn't have the words to describe it, but I could feel that something was different.
My grandmother told me to go sit on the porch. As I sat there, I could hear the cries and wails of the women inside the house. Their grief echoed through the walls, but no one explained what was happening.
Then a black van pulled in front of the house.
My mother came to the porch and gently said, "Come say goodbye to your great-grandfather."
His name was Sugababy.
Lung cancer had taken away the man I knew and loved. But at six years old, I didn't understand what cancer was, or what it meant to say goodbye forever.
Sugababy was a big, strong African American man from Memphis, Tennessee who later moved to Detroit, Michigan, with his wife and young daughter—my grandmother. I remember his deep presence, his cigars, and the pride he took in his work as a butcher at Midway Market. Some of my favorite memories were visiting him at work, where he always made sure I left with every piece of candy I wanted.
Then everything changed.
The strong man who stood behind the butcher counter became confined to a bed. His body grew weaker while the disease grew stronger. And then one day, he died.
No one prepared me.
No one explained that his body was shutting down. No one told me that the last time I saw him alive would truly be the last. I was simply told to come say goodbye.
I watched as the funeral home staff carefully placed him into a body bag and carried him away.
Then they were gone.
The house felt different after that. Even after his homegoing service, the heaviness remained. It lingered in the silence, in the empty chair, and in the questions that filled my six-year-old mind.
People tried to comfort me by saying, "He's in heaven."
But that answer only created more questions.
Where is heaven?
Can I go there?
Why would he want to be there instead of here with me?
Would I ever see him again?
Those questions stayed with me for years because no one knew how to answer them.
Looking back now, I realize that adults were grieving too. They were carrying their own heartbreak while trying to comfort a little girl. They probably did the best they could with what they knew.
But children grieve differently.
They notice everything.
They feel everything.
And they deserve honest, age-appropriate conversations about death and dying.
That little girl sitting on the porch in the spring of 1985 never imagined that one day she would dedicate her life to walking beside others through life's final chapter. Yet that first experience with death planted a seed that would eventually grow into a calling—one rooted in compassion, presence, and the belief that no one should have to face death or grief alone.
So I'll leave you with a few questions.
When was your first dance with death?
Who was the person you lost?
Did someone help you understand what was happening, or were you left with unanswered questions like I was?
I'd love to hear your story. Sometimes, simply sharing our memories reminds us that we're not alone—and that healing often begins when we give ourselves permission to remember.