City elephants never lament. We gave it up when we moved off the savanna. For one thing, city code discourages open-air burials. And everything needs a permit, even public displays of mourning. It makes sense. Can you imagine if we did it the old way?
Traffic remains snarled near Columbus Circle while fifteen pachyderms continue their vigil for a herd member who collapsed there nine days ago. When asked for comment, a spokes-female replied, ‘We can’t just leave him to the jackals and vultures.’ In other news, wild dog sightings increase near Central Park…
But in giving up our shared grieving, we risk losing part of our identity. When we stand together, vocalizing our feelings, we give each other strength. And when we lean together, or reach out with a reassuring trunk, we reinforce our bonds, our herd. We remember.
The concrete jungle tends to impose its ways on those who move here. No one takes time, no one has space, and eventually, we try not to feel. I saw a pachyderm begging on the sidewalk the other day – an Asian, no one I knew. At first, I passed right by. After all, if you stop to give change to every beggar you meet, pretty soon you end up joining them. The city wants you to just move on.
Then I thought of home, where even rogues have a place in the herd. And there, when we find a pachyderm dying, or stumble upon one’s unknown bones, we stop. We mourn the life we’ve lost. We take time, we make space, we choose to care.
I went back. Every little bit helps.
Here in the city, elephants never lament. Still, we don’t simply forget those that have come before, even if we skip the vigils and natural burials. We never forget. We just have more private ways of remembering.
For other perspectives on grief, don’t miss Elephants Never Let Their Loved Ones Die Alone by Elisabeth Horan and At the Memorial by Leah Mueller.