It’s late on a Wednesday evening and I’m standing under the shower, hot water slamming into my shoulders, tears streaming down my face.
That morning, we had buried my 34-year-old cousin at Rookwood Cemetery in Sydney’s west. He was a much-loved character who died in a motorcycle accident 11 days earlier, leaving behind two young children and a heartbroken wife.
By the time I had arrived home from the wake and put my kids to bed, I thought the tears had dried up for the day. But in the steamy shower, my mind drifted to a vision of my cousin being lowered into the ground, his mother wailing in an intense expression of grief, and I stood there in the bathroom, a hot sobbing mess.
At the wake, I’d had a conversation with a close friend of my cousin’s. They were old mates, but thanks to their demanding jobs and family lives, they had drifted apart, only catching up occasionally.
As we reminisced about my cousin’s antics in the good ol’ days at parties and on weekends away, the friend expressed a regret.
My physical absence did not mean I wasn’t there for my cousin, or any other members of my family
“I really wish I’d spent more time with him,” he said, and I reluctantly concurred, admitting that in recent years, I’d not spent much time with my cousin, or indeed any relatives outside my immediate family.
Conversely, my cousin was a true family man. He loved nothing more than the Big Fat Greek-Cypriot Get-together, where all the cousins and their partners and kids, a dozen or more aunties and uncles, and the odd friend or neighbour gathered for a festival of family and food.
Once, in another life, if I wasn’t travelling overseas, I was always at these gatherings. But a few years ago I moved to the furthest end of the city, an almost 90-minute drive away, meaning I was suddenly absent more often than not.
In the days after my cousin’s death, I sat with his grieving mother in her backyard, where many of these family gatherings took place. I held her hand and listened to her talk about her son, his hopes and dreams and the progress he’d made towards them.
“He really looked up to you guys, you know,” she said, referring to my brother and me, the eldest of 17 maternal cousins here in Australia.
Truth be told, it was actually my brother he looked up to. They were much more alike, their interests more aligned. While they bonded over these things and stayed together, I grew distant, pursuing my own passions and pastimes and spending time with friends who shared them.
The next thing my auntie told me cut me deep.
“Sometimes he would ask me where you were, why you weren’t there with us,” she said. “I’d say to him, ‘Look, you might not see your cousin very often, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone from your life. It’s just like the stars in the sky – some nights you can’t see them, but they’re always there.’”
In one sense, my auntie was right. My physical absence did not mean I wasn’t there for my cousin, or any other members of my family. I have a deep connection with them that transcends space and time. I could just as easily live in Queensland or Mexico, and my love for them would not fade.
That connection was more than evident in the days between my cousin’s death and his funeral, as we all gathered to surround each other with support. At the same time, this strong show of solidarity, of love and care, made me question whether I should have been more physically present in the good times.
Sure, I could easily blame my regular absence on the distance or even the pandemic. I could argue that I live a busy life, with a job, a wife and two school-aged kids, and all the associated commitments. I could point out that I have too many hobbies and not enough time. All these things played a role.
I do wish I’d spent more time with my cousin before he was taken so suddenly. I wish I knew more about his life, his struggles and his successes
But just like his old friend, I do wish I’d spent more time with my cousin before he was taken so suddenly. I wish I knew more about his life, his struggles and his successes. I wish I travelled across the city more often to see him at family gatherings, where we’d share a laugh while feasting on souvla and salad.
That evening, after my cousin’s funeral, I turn off the shower. As I bring a towel up to my face, I close my eyes and I can see him. He’s smiling, as he often was. It’s a sweet smile that opens a window into the nature of an enigmatic man whose positive energy filled every room he walked into.
His death is a reminder that even those who are full of life can be gone in the blink of an eye. It’s a reminder to never take loved ones for granted, whether it’s the fistful of friends you see every other day or the family members who are like stars in the night sky – not always visible, but always there.
