As a child, I would play in my great-grandmother’s yard. Her yard spanned over 180 acres, and my cousins and I would explore pastures, barns, bayous, and ponds as we played together. We would test our bravery by descending deep into her storm cellar. We would each count the number of steps we would descend before turning to run back up to the light above ground, where the air was fresh and filled with the sweet scent of magnolia trees, daffodils, and honeysuckle. We would climb trees to harvest mistletoe and chew sour weed as we chased chickens and cows.

My grandmother had a house on my great-grandmother’s estate. I would assist my grandmother in collecting eggs from her enormous chicken house and sit in the cold sorting room as we carefully processed each egg, checking for cracks and fertilization. Those eggs that passed the test and were okay to sell would be washed and placed in egg cartons. The smokehouse was next to the egg house, and the food cellar was closest to her home. The pump house, storm cellar, egg house, and food cellar each had their unique odor. Even in my sixties, I can recall those odors as clearly as I can recall the games my cousins and I used to play all around my great-grandmother’s property.

Inside of my great-grandmother’s house were additional opportunities for exploration. Her hallway was wide, and on rainy days, we would play “Mother May I” and “Red Rover.” As a tiny tribe of southern children, our choice would have been to play out in the rain; however, as an adult woman, I think that my great-grandmother was preempting muddy footprints in and out of her home.

My great-grandmother’s kitchen was a magical place. We would help her make dumplings and biscuits to feed all of us during the day. We would line up empty jam jars along her counters and pour fresh milk for everyone to drink. In our minds, we were helping her. Now that I reflect back, I think our mess was more work for her than if she had just shooed us outside and taken care of it herself. But, my great-grandmother had infinite patience and loved her grand and great-grandchildren beyond measure. At times, there would be more than 20 of us there wanting a sip of cool water, a snack, or perhaps a private moment in her restroom. I wonder how she did it.

Most of the time, if not all of the time, our play was peaceful. I can’t remember ever arguing with any of my cousins. I loved and continue to love every one of them. As we grew up, many of us moved away and now live in different areas of the United States. Due to age and lifestyle, some of my older cousins have begun passing away. That breaks my heart.

This past week, one of my cousins was in a fatal automobile accident. When we were children, this cousin and I began school together. We were the same age and born in the same month, just a few days apart. My cousin was a twin, but his twin did not survive beyond birth.

As we grew up, I think my cousin carried a deep wound of sadness within his soul over the passing of his twin. Of course, he was an infant and did not remember his twin, but the rest of our family, those who were older, certainly did.

His twin was buried in the cemetery in town. My mother would periodically take my siblings and me to place flowers on his deceased twin’s grave. Our extended family was very open about his twin’s death and would speak about it without reservation. Upon reflection, perhaps some of the adults could have been a little more discreet about their discussions during his childhood. I believe psychologically, these discussions scarred him and possibly caused complications as he traversed life. I am cautious about saying that he suffered mental illness from it, but he sustained issues that none of us did. Back in the 1950s and 1960s, our family was still a bit backwoodsy. No one would have ever had an inkling of death’s psychological impact and grief on a child. No one would have ever thought to concern themselves with his mental health or to take him to a doctor for counseling or assistance; such a shame.

I think my cousin traveled through his life lost and feeling abandoned. I also believe that as a child, he was most likely terrified that he too would one day die without cause. These fears, without proper love and protection from the responsible adults in his life, would leave him vulnerable to the imaginations of a child. I never thought about it until he passed last week.

As a certified grief counselor, perhaps there were things I could have done to help him. I don’t know. I never realized that his problems in life might have been related to his twin’s death at birth, as well as the unguarded discussions he was subject to as a child. Actually, I am not the one who even presented this hypothesis. As I discussed his personality with a colleague, she suggested mental illness. Upon reflection and analysis, I realized that his issues may have been profoundly rooted in fear from his exposure to unguarded adult conversations surrounding his twin’s death. It seems highly probable.

When discussing death with a child, an adult should answer the child’s questions honestly, using language appropriate to the child’s understanding. The circumstances for my cousin were impossible for him. No one in our family was educated enough to consider that he might be fearful of his own death, that he was too young to discern that his twin’s death was not related to his health, or that he was not at fault as the survivor. “Children often blame themselves for the death of someone else, and the truth helps them see that they are not at fault.” (Pamphlet: How to Talk to Kids about Death, Tracy Renee Lee, 2010)

As a child, my cousin was frightening. He was very much out of control. “For children, expressions of grief often manifest as explosive emotions and acting out behaviors reflecting the child’s internal feelings of anger, terror, frustration, helplessness, and insecurities related to the reality of death.” (Pamphlet: How to Talk to Kids about Death, Tracy Renee Lee, 2010) 

When we started school together, my cousin seemed always to find himself in trouble. He would be called into the principal’s office, and his desk was separated from other students. As a teenager, he was entangled with law enforcement. Moreover, as an adult, he found himself in and out of incarceration repeatedly.

My cousin was a poor, backwoods boy from the Louisiana countryside. His parents and grandparents were not substantially educated, and I fear he may have suffered psychological complications associated with the infant death of his twin. I wish his life had been different or that I could have done something to help him through his difficulties.

Unfortunately, I did not comprehend the possibilities of grief-related mental disorders until his death. However, I now have a new understanding that I can use to assist others who may be suffering the same afflictions from this day forward.

That’s the best I can do. Helping him is now beyond my grasp. Unfortunately, I never realized that my education might have assisted him through some of his difficulties before it was too late. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that he suffered such a lonely and miserable life and that it ended on a county road with no one around to comfort him as his life escaped his body. I hope that if you know of someone suffering as my cousin did, you will reach out to help them. I hope I will too.