Through the Lens: Kum’s Sacred Farewell
A story of grief, beauty, and the unraveling of how I was taught to say goodbye
Not long ago, I was invited to photograph a moment that forever altered how I understand life, death, and the space in between. Kum was only one year old when he passed — a luminous soul who lived his short life wrapped in the love of his parents, Sophie and Dan. Born with a terminal heart condition, his time here was tender, sacred, and fleeting. But what struck me most was not the tragedy of his passing — it was the way his family, deeply rooted in ancient natural traditions, met his death with reverence, ceremony, and awe.
The night before Kum’s burial, I stepped quietly into the sacred circle that had formed around his transition. Shaina, the death doula, sat in perfect stillness by the candlelight, her hands gently knitting a burial shroud for his small body. Each loop, each knot, was a prayer. An offering. A language of devotion spoken in wool and breath. Roman, a Native Taino spiritual leader, lifted the space in clouds of sacred tobacco and prayers for Kum and the family gathering.
The room was quiet but alive, not with despair, but with presence. No one rushed the moment. No one turned away.
As I photographed, I didn’t feel like an observer. I felt like a witness. To something ancient. Something whole.
The next day, at the burial site, the family gathered under the vast sky. There were tears, of course. But there was also drumming. Singing. Laughter. Earth between fingers. Sacred plants are offered to the soil. Kum’s body, wrapped in that knitted shroud, was held and cradled one final time before returning to the Earth. It was not sterile. It was not hidden. It was heartbreakingly beautiful.
And in the midst of it all, something stirred inside me. A deep, raw ache I hadn’t let myself feel in decades.
My mother died when I was twelve. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Her death was quiet, contained, and distant — handled by professionals, tucked behind curtains, smoothed over with makeup, and dressed in her best clothes for us to view one last time. We were not invited to be part of the threshold. We did not touch her. We did not sing to her. We did not weep onto her body or anoint her with oil. We were left to process the mystery of death in silence, and for me, that silence calcified into something ungrieved.
But watching Sophie and Dan cradle their son — seeing them grieve with their hands, their voices, their whole bodies — something inside me cracked open. I saw a family who understood that death is not the opposite of life, but a doorway. A return. A ritual. A becoming.
Through my lens, I was not only documenting Kum’s farewell. I was reclaiming something for myself. A lost rite. A deeper truth.
This experience was not just about Kum’s passing. It was about love — unflinching, embodied love. It was about Sophia and Dan, walking with grace through a grief that could easily consume, and instead choosing to meet it with ceremony and song. It was about how we, as a culture, have forgotten how to say goodbye with our own hands and hearts.
And for me, it was about remembering.
I never got to grieve my mother this way. But in some quiet, unseen way, Kum gave me that chance. His soul, so bright and brief, offered a mirror — one I didn’t know I needed.
And I am forever changed.
In love and reverence
Kellie Amaliana
Thank you to all
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