People are not particularly interested or capable of remembering all the details. My girlfriend says it’s hard for her to pick out the details, because my whole life was surrouded by Steele. When we are so emersed in life, we often take the details for granted. Now, I have a slight obsession with remembering the details. Like my obsession with Steele’s bald head. It was so intriguing to me. His dark chocolate blackness reached all the way to the crown of his head. Every week he said he was going to start to grow his dreadlocks. He had a fascination with locks and always wanted to grow them. I never asked why; I suppose I didn’t take him seriously since he never made a serious attempt at it. He would grow his hair into a low afro sometimes, and then out of the blue he would call me in the bathroom where he had his shaving kit all setup. He would have a big smile on his face, because he knew my favourite thing was for him to cut off his hair.
I was so happy, and nervous, the first time he let me shave his head. I thought that was like a graduating step in our relationship. When I was afraid of cutting him, he would always tell me not to worry; the shares are safe, as long as I remember the right direction to move them in. I would try to carve spirals and other patterns in his head while I was shaving it, and he would row me. He would say, “Suppose the electricity cuts off?” Implying I shouldn’t be playing with fire. When I was finished, he would always go over my work to make sure I didn’t leave any patches. I would say: “You don’t trust me?” He would just smile and continue to rub his head to feel for missed spots or unevenness.
It’s like in the hospital, when he asked me to cut his nails for him. This was another graduating step as far as I was concerned. My mother always clips my father’s finger nails and toe nails. I had never thought to do that for him before. His mother was at the hospital at the time, but he was like let Noelle do it. I was so nervous. I felt like I didn’t know what to do, plus I was in front of his mother so I had to make a good impression and prove that I was somewhat domesticated.
The first time went okay. I just didn’t cut them very low. The second time he asked me, we were by ourselves. He kept saying, “Be careful now.” Of course, I am not known for being very dainty with my hands, so I pinched his skin by mistake. He was like, okay let me do it. I was so devastated. I think he noticed, so he was like okay you do it, but be careful. I was a horrible nurse. The first time I had to bathe him, I tripped over the bucket of water and spilled it. It was at his mother’s house. He was like, ‘It’s okay, don’t worry’. He had such a gentle way about him. I felt so honoured to be there taking care of him. I just wanted to get it right.
When we die, the world just carries on without a flinch. We always document the lives of the rich and famous, but rarely the lives of the people who are most precious to us. When people mourn they are eager to share their memories, and recollect the stories. But once life moves on and Steele falls from their consciousness, they will lose interest. I don’t want to forget. I want to remember his life like Queen Auset of Ancient Kemet (Egypt), who searched everywhere to find the 14 dismembered pieces of her beloved King Ausar who was murdered and scattered across the lands. She was desperate to re-member his body, so he could be mummified and have a proper ascension into the afterlife.
Who will give my grandfather that gift when he dies? He is very old and sick. I visited him today for the first time since Steele passed. He spends most of his time in bed, curled up in the foetal position. When he wanted to tell his stories, no one was there to listen. When I came home in February I tried to strike up a conversation with him; my intention was to record him telling stories. He told me: “It’s too late. All that time you were away in Jamaica when my memory was good and now it’s too late because I can’t remember anything anymore, and I’m not going to lie to you and tell you foolishness.” I tried to insist it wasn’t too late and I was there now talking to him. He just said: “I’m telling you it’s too late. You don’t know, but I know. I had so much to tell you. There is so much you don’t know, but it’s too late.” I was so sad. I felt like I let him down. Now it’s really probably too late. He’s not much up for conversing and neither am I.
How many people die and their stories die with them too?