I took an Anthropology class in College, I think I was a freshman, so more than 20 years ago, and the only thing I remember about the class was the Trobriand Islanders and yams. Yams were exchanged in the culture for what seemed like every occasion.  There was a chapter or a lecture or a daydream I had once after a particularly carb filled lunch at Lyman Hall that explained that when someone died, people exchanged yams in a ritual that took days if not months - anyway a long time. 

Everyone had to remember their parts, and knew what their role was and how it would go. 

It was elaborate. 

I remember thinking at the time “This is bullshit. When Grandpa died, we had a thing and we cried and we went on and I still miss him but at least there wasn’t some way for me to accidentally insult my Uncle Ron by giving him the wrong type of yams and end up dead myself which just would start another yam thing.”

But the yams gave structure to grief, to loss, and allowed people to pass through the ritual without fucking up and saying something or not saying something or being a burden or not being a burden or processing their own grief without taking over or imposing on those who are most grieving.  

So without yams we are lost. 

And everything feels like it is wrong.

Clumsy. 

Blind. 

Trying hard not to make someone who has lost their child have to take care of me, or what I am feeling, but at the same time having those feelings of profound loss, all while not wanting to accidentally appear as though it is “all good” and as a result just seized up - like an engine run too long without oil. 

And a part of you wonders if people think you are sad enough or too sad. A part of you worries that people judge how you grieve because you have seen people do that before, and it is the worst of humanity when that happens.  

So you look around at pick up, and see everyone looking around just like you and no one says a thing, and you think - when Jake was alive and needed help, we were all clucking, now we are all silent, looking at our shoes, feeling thankful and guilty that we are here in the cold picking up our children, very aware of what a gift, what a tremendous gift it is to get to do that. 

And you can’t bring yourself to send much more than a few words to your friend who moved away to Wisconsin, because you know she wants to know, but you don’t want to say anything because it is too hard. 

All you want is to feel useful, and there is nothing to do to be of use, because you can’t undo what is done. 

So you go about hoping people at work refrain from bullshit because you can’t take it and know you would be unprofessional.  You go on Tumblr because kitten photos, Sherlock gifs and run recaps are respite from thinking about what is lost and how terribly awkward you are - all the time - but especially now.  

And you try to be honest and do what the pamphlet on grief and kids said to do when your kid asks about seeing the body and what that means and how when she dies she wants you to see her and you crumble inside at the thought.

And you wander the grocery store produce section and mindlessly load up the cart with sweet potatoes to make soup for Jake’s grandparents because they like it, but worry they must be sick of it by now.

And you think of the Trobriand Islanders and wish it was as easy as yams.