Some days are tough.

Some days I’m screaming inside my head, begging the cosmos, the universe, and whatever else may be so expansive and powerful, even if only in the concepts of certain people; I beg them to give me back what was once mine, laying claim on my happy memories, my source of joys, my sense of self, my sense of family and home, and the source of my comfort. I am begging for the existence of people long gone to be restored at their best. I don’t mean to be selfish, but some days are harder than others.

Losing my grandmother in June has been tough. I cannot say I have overcome the grief. It was most tragic, and certain circumstances made me feel bitter at the time. However, this time around, most people are me were respectful and supportive of each other. The atmosphere was calm, and the memory of the departed was vivid. Everybody felt the presence and treated it with the kindness that it deserves. I recognize this because losing my paternal grandmother over a decade ago was one of the harshest experiences of my childhood. It felt like dominoes toppling down one after the other. For starters, I lost my grandfather two days later. It made me keep my guard up for years after. I had to purge myself of it, and cried hard when I finally let it go. And I might not have been successful had I been by myself – if it wasn’t for my maternal grandmother, frequently demanding to be let in and have my affection and shower me with hers, as I eventually allowed.

My maternal grandmother and I. Here I was probably a year old, not more.

My maternal grandmother and I. Here I am not older than about a year. 

Death is never easy. Its permanence strikes you and sinks in at a painfully slow rate. As much as I rationalize it to myself and regain outward composure, I only have to take a nap in the afternoon to be flung into the world of dreams where my subconscious shows me what I crave for. I want her hands in mine. I miss her sense of humour. I miss her overwhelming concern about me and everything that was about me. I miss lying next to her, simply hugging, not necessarily talking, on particularly rough days. I miss her by the side of my grandfather, for whom I feel miserably incomplete. I miss her till I am sure that it is my soul that hurts inside my chest, throbbing and struggling to be released. Every other endeavour seems like meaningless pursuit and pales in comparison to the meaningfulness of the relationship we nurtured. To me, she was not a person but a world unto herself.

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One thought on “Some days are tough.

  1. Pingback: Adieu, my precious. | Risk-taking. Soul-sailing.

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