I went to see my brother’s grave. I don’t remember the last time I went. 3 April marks eight years since his passing and I felt it was important I go - no excuses. The first time, at his burial, I was still in shock and denial. His friends and family surrounded the area; looking at their faces, I saw only bewilderment and sadness.

Having said that, God cleared my schedule so I could see my brother. Normally, I pray with a mentor on Thursdays after work, but she was busy. I was also able to finish my shift early. I thought about getting someone to go with me for emotional support, but I didn’t ask. Still, I felt it was important I go to pay my respects. I considered what I should wear—not too scruffy. Perhaps the black outfit I wore to Mummy Eye’s funeral? Ultimately, I didn’t think Prince would care too much what I wore, so long as I went. I ended up wearing my favourite red jumper and dark-washed wide-flare jeans. I went to Walmart to get some roses and a new umbrella, as the one I had was wrecked by the wind. Then, I took an Uber to Beechwood Cemetery.

When the car arrived at Walmart, it was mostly quiet. I asked the driver if he could take me directly to the resting site, as there are many sections and I didn’t want to spend forever looking for it. He agreed. Section 25 was the spot. We passed 9, 17, and 26; eventually, we made a turn and reached 25. The driver left me alone in a light, windy drizzle. I made sure to wear my winter jacket and started looking across the stones for 155—where my brother is.

I walked past many Islamic-inspired head markers. I searched through the numbers: 25… 55… 195—nope, too far. I walked around a bit more and eventually saw it: 155. Prince’s full name was on the marker, along with some moon crescents. I presume Firelord Ozai was stringent on preserving Prince’s so-called Islamic heritage. Though Firelord Ozai was quite removed from Prince’s and my lives, I can safely say Prince would have wanted a Christian head marker. There was no one else in sight. Just myself, the tombstones, the markers, and the silence. My shoes stepped on the head marker before I quickly pulled back and apologised. I vaguely remember this area from coming here on occasion with one of Prince’s friends and one of my own.

I spent some time in silence. I said a prayer and dropped the roses by the head marker. I looked into the distance at the seemingly endless rows of memorials for the deceased, acutely aware of our mortality.

“By the sweat of your face you will eat bread until you return to the ground, because out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you will return.” — Genesis 3:19 (MEV)

After a few minutes, I made my way back home. I saw the rows of Christian-dedicated tombstones; I focused on the Christian areas to see if there was a message of encouragement for myself. I saw the mausoleum where I imagine those with the funds store their family in a lavish send off. I left the cemetery and headed to the subway station conveniently located across the street.

It’s weird—my brother, who is a colourful tapestry, seemingly reduced to an allocated plot of land. I have experienced extreme cognitive dissonance navigating it all. I am acutely aware of our mortality; how life is indeed a vapour.

thoughts on grief will expand upon this and show the richness my brother carried. It is coming out in June. I ask for your prayers. It is currently going through my own edits before final polishing by esteemed editor Hugh Barker. I am also looking for a book designer; big things are coming.

Further information can be found on my publishing website here curiousmonarchpress.com.

God bless and all my love,
Princess

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