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Cherrywood Drive
By: Katelyn Topshee Cherrywood Drive stretched across the river near downtown. Every house was painted the same shade of white and almost every window faced the water. The grass out front was always perfect, and the flowerbeds were so red they looked fake. It’s along this road where an old truck pulled up next to Mary-Anne, who was walking along the curb. “Your mom said you needed a ride.” Walter leaned over to open the passenger door. “What are you doing in Cherrywood?” “I can get home on my own.” She continued to move past his truck. He called out her name a few times but she didn’t stop. Eventually he left the car to catch up with her. “Anne, don't be ridiculous. I’m here now, just get in the car.” He stood in front to block her path. “What are you doing in Cherrywood?” Her stomach lurched as he kept talking. She thought through her reaction, refusing to look up at him. Her hands twitched. “It’s really not a long walk. Go home Walt.” “Christ, I haven’t been here in ages.” He didn’t move out of her way. “I think the last time I was here was Mike’s party. Were you there for Mike’s party? You must have been.” “Yeah, of course I was.” “Is that why you’re here? A party? I used to love the rich kid parties, the cops never show up at the rich kid parties.” “There wasn’t a party.” “So what are you doing in Cherrywood?” “Nothing, I’m walking home.” She tried to step away but he grabbed her shoulder. She jumped back, looking him in the eyes for the first time. He let go and put his hand in his pockets. “Sorry, I... forgot.” He looked down at her. Her eyes shifted back to the ground, then to the road ahead. “Come on Anne, let’s get you home.” She didn’t say anything for a couple minutes, but she could feel his gaze on the back of her head. It felt like she was melting under it. Why did her mom care if she was home? Why would her mom be talking to Walt? She remained silent as she got in his truck, struggling a bit to climb into it. Walter followed her in and pulled away from the road immediately. She continued to play with her hands as she looked out the window, the white houses fading into trees as they left Cherrywood. She tried to breathe deeply so her hands wouldn’t move too much, but it wasn’t really working. “You know if there was a party you could tell me, I wouldn’t snitch on you.” His loud voice compared to the previous silence of the car felt deafening. Walter tried smiling at her but she wouldn’t meet his eyes again. “I already told you, there wasn’t a party.” Her voice shook a bit as she spoke. “Why would you be in Cherrywood if there wasn’t a party?” “Why do you care?” “Because you’re practically family, and I care where my family’s been.” Mary-Anne scoffed a bit at this, but he didn’t pay it any mind. The car stopped as they waited for the light to change. It shined bright through the windshield and painted Walter in a dark shade of red. She matched her breathing to the ticking of the turn signal. “So you’re really not gonna tell me why you’re here?” He turned towards her but she still looked away, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Why did mom send you?” “Huh?” He looked at her like she was stupid. “Cause she was worried about you.” “But why did she send you? Was your family over at our house?” “Yeah? They were talking, so she sent me.” “What were they talking about?” She tried not to let panic into her voice. Walter began to turn the car, trying to keep his eyes off Mary-Anne but feeling all too aware she was refusing to look at him. He didn’t like it. “Random shit, I don’t know.” He started to get louder “What kind of shit?” She started to get anxious. “You know, just… adult shit.” “You’re 21.” “God, does it matter?” When he yelled she felt like her stomach was going to leap from her body. She chose to stop thinking of him, shifting her focus to the cars outside. They looked so small from this height. She focused on breathing again. “I’m sorry for yelling,” he muttered. The cars left her mind. She felt her eyes start to water but she blinked it back. Walter kept his eyes on the road. “I just don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.” He paused for a response. She said nothing. “Hell, the only reason we’re speaking now is because you were in goddamn Cherrywood for some mystery purpose.” “Will you shut up about Cherrywood?” “Will you tell me why you were there?” “I was just on a walk.” This time it was Walter who scoffed. “Come on, a walk on the other side of town?” “Yep.” She nearly yelled but stopped herself. She still didn’t look at him, so he tried to get her attention by placing his hand next to her. She moved away from him, her heart beating faster. “What are you doing?” “Would it kill you to look at me when we talk?” “I don’t want to talk, Walt.” “Well maybe you need to talk.” “You know nothing about what I need.” Her hands pressed together once she realized what she’d said. She thought about apologising, but Walter wasn’t phased. “Look Anne, it feels like you’ve been pissed at me—” “Please, I said I didn’t want—” “And it’s not like you said no—” “Can you please stop talking—” “I just don’t understand why we can’t go back to normal.” “Normal?” She finally turned to face him. “What is normal? We barely talked when we were kids, and we don’t have to talk now.” “Well what do you want from me?” “I don’t want anything from you! I never did! I didn’t even want you to drive me home.” “So you were planning to walk all that way just because you have some vendetta against me?” “A vendetta?” she yelled. “You think I don’t want to see you because of a vendetta? Do you have any idea how much it takes just to face you sometimes?” The tears in her eyes came out in full force and she froze. Walter looked at her, then back at the road. She thought about apologizing again, but couldn’t really find the words. They sat in silence for another minute. All she’d wanted since she’d seen him was quiet, but now it felt more like a punishment than a prize. Before she could think to say something he pulled over at the side of the road. She looked to him for an explanation, but this time he said nothing. “What are you doing?” She asked, tears still falling from her face. He stayed silent. “Walt, what are we doing here?” He unlocked the car doors. “You wanted to walk home, Anne? Go ahead. I’m not stopping you.” She sat there stunned, waiting to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. She waited another moment to be sure. He stayed quiet. “Are you?” She paused. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “God- you know what? Fuck you Walt.” She slammed the door behind her and walked back the way she came. |
Wavering Realities
By: Mia Christensen My eyes sting under the bright light as I sit up from the couch. I stumble towards the light switch in hopes of dimming it, flinching as my feet ache along the floor. I reach for the switch and run my hand over the smooth plate, I don’t have a dimmer. Fine. I flick on the dull light for the kitchen instead. It’s clean. Why is it clean? I didn’t clean it. I pick up the pace and run towards the cleared-off countertops, trying to ignore the throbbing as my foot hits the ground. Someone must’ve been here. No, no, no. Who was here? Sweat forms on my forehead as I rummage through the drawers to check its contents. It’s all organized. My fist clenches, piercing my palm at the thought of someone having been here. No. I keep looking through the cabinets, ignoring the huge mess I was making. I slam my clammy fists on the counter in front of me, letting the feedback course through my body. I pick myself up only to turn the corner to find broken glass on the floor next to a pile of blood. Shoot. I look behind me to find a trail of half-bloody footsteps behind me. No, no, no. I look around, darting my eyes around the room. They're my footsteps. Dumbass. No one was here. Why would I have thought that? Everything of value is still here. What type of intruder comes to clean your kitchen? Ugh. I turn around and grab the roll of paper towel, suddenly much more aware of the sharp pain in my foot. I sweep up the glass and reach up into the upper cabinets to grab the first aid kit. This happens too often for me not to have one. My phone dings as one of my coworkers asks if I’m coming in today. I look up at the time. Shoot. I grab the keys and run towards the garage door, my bandaged foot sliding on the tile. I’m exhausted, but I stop to get them donuts on the way. I can’t tell if it’s to make them happy or to apologize for the fact that I’m probably going to fall asleep at my desk today. I’ll label it as a peace offering. I pull into the parking lot, throw on my loafers and sprint toward the door. No matter how much I hate this job, these are the only people I’ve managed to keep a relationship with. I glance at my watch, I’m on time. I scan my keycard and wave to the underpaid guard, maneuvering carefully with the box as I kick open the door. The small group gathers, their eyes glowing at the box of donuts, making me smile. I love seeing them like this. I sit down at my desk. The chair’s been adjusted. No, I can’t go through this again. It’s okay, it’ll be fine. But who adjusted the chair? No, It’s ten in the morning and I’ve already exhausted myself. I don’t have time for this. But somebody touched your stuff. It was probably just me again, like this morning, I tell the voice. My teeth clench. But what if it isn't. Stop. I bet somebody went through and messed with every little thing. “Shut up!” I accidentally shout. My fingers run through my hair and leave gashes on my forehead. I look around to see my coworkers staring nervously at me. I give an apologetic smile. They’ve dealt with this before, it’ll be okay. No, they’re going to hate you- “GO AWAY” I shout, pulling on the hair from my scalp until I wince from the pain. I can hear somebody coming behind me. Please. No. Not again. Somebody puts their hands on my shoulders with just enough force to cause discomfort. “Calm down,” I can't tell if it's the voice in my head or if someone’s actually talking to me. “Please. Don’t,” I snarl through gritted teeth as my fists close up. The hands on my shoulders feel like knives as they try to move me, so I turn around and punch them. And just like that, I’m gone. Shoot. I'm kicked out of my body, stuck watching it as it wrecks those around me. It’s yelling at my boss, the person who touched me, and my friends nearby. I’m stuck in a room, there’s a window between us, I can see it but I can’t stop it. I bang my fists on the window shouting for it to stop, for me to get my body back, but it won’t break. I pace around the room. I can’t watch myself do this. My hands scrape through my hair, but I don’t feel them. I can’t feel myself, my bandaged foot doesn’t even hurt. I’m like a freaking ghost, bloody hell. I go back to the window and bang on it, sobbing as I watch it destroy the hard-won relationships I built with my friends. It’s yelling, yelling about how little it cares about them, I can see the tears form in some of their eyes. Please, no. I scream, punching my fists against the window, but then I feel it. A piercing pain in my hands, a gasp of air, but as my hand reaches through the glass everything fades away into the darkness. I can’t move, but I scream until I’m out of breath, letting it echo through the void. I wake up to the wonderful smell of sanitization. I sit up and look down at my body, I’m covered in wires and am wearing a singular grippy sock. Great. “I’m Dr. Nick, you’ve been admitted before, so I assume you know the drill?” I nod, but he doesn’t continue speaking yet. “Anyways, you seem to have been having a dissociative episode. It means you have an unreliable connection with reality, so when you’re experiencing strong emotions, you tend to blackout, lose connection with your body, or forget the event altogether. Does this make sense?” “I guess so,” I say, motioning for him to continue. Why does he look so confused? He looks around and waves a pen in my face. What is he doing? He shrugs his shoulders and walks away. What? “Come back!” I shout at him, but he doesn’t even turn around. I get up from the bed to run after him, expecting the sound of my one grippy sock clinging to the floor. It’s silent. There’s no uncomfortable noise under my feet, there wasn’t any crashing of equipment when I got up, shoot. I stop in my tracks and look back. My body is sitting in the hospital bed, staring off into space. Bloody hell. |
"and all he could say was...."
By: Li Awad
Today, Gray felt pain everywhere after such a long day of work. He made sure that he took his melatonin so he got a real good night’s rest. He spent hours rolling around in bed trying to fall asleep; the melatonin should have started working immediately! Instead, it left him groggy and weak like a hangover. It didn’t make him nauseous, of course, but the moment that thought slipped into his mind, his stomach began to feel like it was burning.
He began thinking back to that awful day; the fateful day that began his spiral of stress, restless nights and when his insomnia settled in. That day when he was about to get a promotion he had been working towards for years and just as his boss was about to tell him about the benefits and ask him to sign the contract, he got a call from his weeping father about his mother passing away in her sleep. She ended up having a heart attack in her sleep and shaking in their bed and by the time his dad woke up, she was gone. Just like that. In one of the most important moments of his career, the feeling of pride was instead displaced by a nightmare that settled right in.
Thinking of it again and how awful the workplace has been was abruptly disturbed by the churning his stomach began. Gray felt seethingly in pain so he began a slow and zombie-like descent to the medicine cabinet for some Pepto Bismol and scrammed to get it into him. Anything to help ease this godforsaken pain that has been annoying him all day. The stress is too much and his ex-fiance’s words flash into his mind; “You can’t keep living in denial, Gray. You have to mourn sometime. You need to accept that she’s gone and move on.”
As the minty, bubblegum flavour slipped through his throat and cooled him, he couldn’t help but wince and cry as that memory ended. The Pepto Bismol gave but a moment of relief until the next pain became apparent to him and suddenly the aches of his body grew. There have been moments when breathing has become too difficult these days, and it was happening to him now. That feeling when his body and mind were under so much pain that he began to shiver and his body no longer breathed on its own; he had to remember to inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale over and over.
The afflictions were unstoppable and now, there was only one medicine that could help him; vodka. He struggled to get down each step of the stairs and felt dizzy after going down one but he eventually reached the cabinet after much anguish.
Gray began ruffling through the bottles in the cabinet and eventually he found it; a full bottle of vodka. He began pouring shot after shot of it and resorting eventually to drinking it straight from the bottle. It felt so pleasant; he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. He was free from it at last and just when he thought he was getting better and the vodka dribbled from his mouth, the side effects began. A headache unlike anything; it’s most easily describable as getting a nail hammered in your head.
This constant pain, especially tonight, has left him numb yet he feels everything at the same time. It’s a plentiful nausea that he cannot stop and it climaxes from within until he can’t help but spew acidic remains. The burning sensation from it forced itself through his esophagus and onto the disgusting taste running over his tongue and out the opening of his mouth and splattering across the unclean waxy kitchen floor.
Gray feels dizzy and still has the puke running down his cheek until he falls and sees the bottle in his hand break. At that moment; in that single moment as the glass bottle shatters onto the floor and pieces start flying, time feels slowed down, as if none of those flying pieces will fall. Some small pieces landed on his palm but he couldn’t be bothered to notice them. He begins to slowly gaze at the flying glass and suddenly, every single heartbreaking memory, every melancholy memory, every good and bad of him and his mother runs through the pieces in a flash… And then, he sees one that stands out. It’s a picture of his mother he’s always looked to since she left this world and he knows it in but a second, a flicker even, what it means. He knows what it’s about and the moment he does, the largest piece of glass speaks out to him:
“I know, it’s difficult Gray, but moving on is the healthiest thing you can do. I can’t do this anymore but know that I still love you… And when you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
As time returns to its original state and all the pieces fall and shatter, even more, he notices small pieces have landed on his hands. His hand is dripped with blood and he hasn’t noticed it this whole time but he couldn’t care. He was sobbing like when he was a young boy again, like the cries a baby shrieks when entering the world and as tears scurried across his face, all he could say at that moment was, “I love you, mom.”
By: Li Awad
Today, Gray felt pain everywhere after such a long day of work. He made sure that he took his melatonin so he got a real good night’s rest. He spent hours rolling around in bed trying to fall asleep; the melatonin should have started working immediately! Instead, it left him groggy and weak like a hangover. It didn’t make him nauseous, of course, but the moment that thought slipped into his mind, his stomach began to feel like it was burning.
He began thinking back to that awful day; the fateful day that began his spiral of stress, restless nights and when his insomnia settled in. That day when he was about to get a promotion he had been working towards for years and just as his boss was about to tell him about the benefits and ask him to sign the contract, he got a call from his weeping father about his mother passing away in her sleep. She ended up having a heart attack in her sleep and shaking in their bed and by the time his dad woke up, she was gone. Just like that. In one of the most important moments of his career, the feeling of pride was instead displaced by a nightmare that settled right in.
Thinking of it again and how awful the workplace has been was abruptly disturbed by the churning his stomach began. Gray felt seethingly in pain so he began a slow and zombie-like descent to the medicine cabinet for some Pepto Bismol and scrammed to get it into him. Anything to help ease this godforsaken pain that has been annoying him all day. The stress is too much and his ex-fiance’s words flash into his mind; “You can’t keep living in denial, Gray. You have to mourn sometime. You need to accept that she’s gone and move on.”
As the minty, bubblegum flavour slipped through his throat and cooled him, he couldn’t help but wince and cry as that memory ended. The Pepto Bismol gave but a moment of relief until the next pain became apparent to him and suddenly the aches of his body grew. There have been moments when breathing has become too difficult these days, and it was happening to him now. That feeling when his body and mind were under so much pain that he began to shiver and his body no longer breathed on its own; he had to remember to inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale over and over.
The afflictions were unstoppable and now, there was only one medicine that could help him; vodka. He struggled to get down each step of the stairs and felt dizzy after going down one but he eventually reached the cabinet after much anguish.
Gray began ruffling through the bottles in the cabinet and eventually he found it; a full bottle of vodka. He began pouring shot after shot of it and resorting eventually to drinking it straight from the bottle. It felt so pleasant; he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. He was free from it at last and just when he thought he was getting better and the vodka dribbled from his mouth, the side effects began. A headache unlike anything; it’s most easily describable as getting a nail hammered in your head.
This constant pain, especially tonight, has left him numb yet he feels everything at the same time. It’s a plentiful nausea that he cannot stop and it climaxes from within until he can’t help but spew acidic remains. The burning sensation from it forced itself through his esophagus and onto the disgusting taste running over his tongue and out the opening of his mouth and splattering across the unclean waxy kitchen floor.
Gray feels dizzy and still has the puke running down his cheek until he falls and sees the bottle in his hand break. At that moment; in that single moment as the glass bottle shatters onto the floor and pieces start flying, time feels slowed down, as if none of those flying pieces will fall. Some small pieces landed on his palm but he couldn’t be bothered to notice them. He begins to slowly gaze at the flying glass and suddenly, every single heartbreaking memory, every melancholy memory, every good and bad of him and his mother runs through the pieces in a flash… And then, he sees one that stands out. It’s a picture of his mother he’s always looked to since she left this world and he knows it in but a second, a flicker even, what it means. He knows what it’s about and the moment he does, the largest piece of glass speaks out to him:
“I know, it’s difficult Gray, but moving on is the healthiest thing you can do. I can’t do this anymore but know that I still love you… And when you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
As time returns to its original state and all the pieces fall and shatter, even more, he notices small pieces have landed on his hands. His hand is dripped with blood and he hasn’t noticed it this whole time but he couldn’t care. He was sobbing like when he was a young boy again, like the cries a baby shrieks when entering the world and as tears scurried across his face, all he could say at that moment was, “I love you, mom.”
Forget Me Not
By: Yasmin N
I have read many stories about grief. In each one, they described it slightly differently: a tidal wave overwhelming you, a black hole in your chest, something huge, something destructive, something painful beyond belief. When I first met grief, it was much softer than I had expected. Grief came down from my father’s office, knocking twice on my door before entering. Grief came in the form of my mother with a face full of tears and quivering hands. She pulled me from my blankets into a hug and said, “We lost your grandfather.”
I understood the words but I pushed them aside. I had only seen my mother cry a few times and I didn’t know what to do, so I just smiled, trying to quietly reassure her. I thought of my father, who I had never seen cry, how I could comfort him. My mother stood, wiping tears and pulling herself together, urging me to follow her upstairs. I tried to gather my thoughts. My mother had lost both her parents already, but after they passed I didn't see her for weeks. This time it was different. Not more than 30 minutes could have passed between when my parents heard the news and when they told me. I didn’t know what I would find at the top of the stairs.
When I entered my dad’s office, it was normal. Dad was on the phone, talking to my grandmother, going through a checklist of “How are you?” and “Did you eat yet?”. From what I could hear, she sounded no different than when we last spoke. My grandmother sometimes has trouble understanding what’s going on around her and was probably still shocked. These were explanations I thought of after the fact. At the moment, I didn't find it strange. Then my aunt took over. Our phone didn't have good sound quality but even then you could hear how hard she was trying not to cry. That reaction, with all the tears, that's probably normal, right? Should I be crying?
I sat on the floor of my dad’s office for a while after the call ended, staring up at him. He was the one to break the silence, thinking about the last conversation he had had with my grandfather. It was over the phone, and with both of them being hard of hearing it had been little more than a greeting. Dad sounded angry, but I didn’t know who that anger was directed towards.
“At least my mom doesn’t have to deal with him anymore, all his complaining…” He laughed a bit and covered his eyes. “Guess that was our last conversation.”
Dad was never big on hugs but I didn’t know what to say so I just patted his knee. He reassured me, saying he was okay, and he and Mom began planning a dinner. It was something small, but we would cook that steak we had been saving. Dad would get some gin, my grandfather's favorite drink. When I walked downstairs I caught sight of a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter. It was my dad’s first almost successful attempt, he and Mom had been laughing as they took it out of the oven earlier this morning. I grabbed the bread knife. Toast for breakfast it is.
I didn’t see my parents until dinner time. I was vaguely aware of my dad leaving the house and later coming back, but I didn't want to see him. I spent most of the time catching up on shows I wanted to watch. The silence whenever I paused felt heavy, and it was hard to focus. I didn't feel like crying. It was an easy thing to justify at first. Things as big as death don't sink in right away, of course I wouldn't start crying now. Maybe later. I hadn't cried when my other grandparents died, but I had only met them once after all, I would cry this time.
Later came.
He and I had never been too close. It became easy to explain. We only visited once a year, if that, and he rarely could be convinced to have a conversation on the phone. Last week had been the longest conversation for years, and that was because I interviewed him for a school project. It had also been our last conversation. I wondered, if not for him, would I cry for anyone? But the thought was quickly pushed away; uncomfortable.
Over dinner, after a toast, my parents shared stories and laughed. Mom talked about how when she had first met my grandfather, it was so hard for him to pronounce her name correctly. She kept looking over at Dad, but he just stared off into the distance. I stared at my drink. The clink of ice cubes was suddenly too loud. I found myself searching, combing over every interaction with my grandfather, trying to find a sweet story I could share, trying to prove something.
"He used to read to me, when I was younger," I found myself saying. "I always got him to read the same books." But no matter what books I bought, my grandfather would read them, pausing every few sentences to clear his throat. He had a very distinct voice. Maybe it was because he smoked.
That was one of the few times my grandfather and I spent together, and I grew out of it quickly. Even without that, we would often find ourselves alone on the balcony. I would be out there to read or enjoy the view, and he would be out there to smoke. He sat in the corner of the balcony, and every time he would warn me not to sit where I could smell the smoke, that it wasn’t good for me. If it's so bad, why do you smoke? Something I often thought, more of a complaint at his nagging than anything else.
After dinner, I started cleaning the kitchen. The normal routine felt so treasonous, and I put on my headphones. My parents sat in the living room, lights off, staring out the windows, and I turned the music as high as I could . For as light as the laughter had been, how soft the words of comfort were, whenever I listened to them it felt invasive at best, accusatory at worst. It was all ridiculous. Despite conflicting thoughts, I tried to make the least amount of noise possible. I owed them this much.
The blank page sat in front of me, taunting. My parents had asked me to make a card, but each time they repeated the question they made it increasingly clear that I wouldn’t be able to wiggle my way out. So I took my sketchbook, set my colored pencils in rows around me, took my pencil, and stared at the paper. I had ideas, bouquets of roses and lilies, things certainly beyond my skill level, but hadn’t touched the paper once.
Besides, I thought, leaning back in my chair, what could be gained from a cheap card, half-hearted at best? It was late, so I took the easy out and turned off the light.
The thing about sleep though, is that you are left alone with your thoughts. Letting my mind wander brought it back to the elephant in the room. A few uneventful days didn’t give me anything better to think about, nor enough time to remove the unease that came with it. It didn’t make any sense to me, why this should put me so off-balance. Yes it was sad he was gone, but to me, he was barely ever there anyway.
Our conversations hardly ever involved more than my latest school project or the weather. He had been happy to read my writing though. One time, I sent him a full portfolio. I hadn't expected more than a “good job!” from him the next time we saw each other. It surprised me when, a few weeks later, I got a letter. It was almost four pages long, handwritten, a paragraph for each piece I had sent to him. He had listed the things he found most impressive, what he hadn’t understood, different word choices, as meticulously as any of my peers. Even my parents were surprised. It was the kindest thing he had done for me.
“You should send him your writing more often!” They said, and I had agreed. I sent him one letter in reply, thanking him, but that was it. Even for the pieces I was proud of, it became too much effort, or simply slipped my mind.
I buried myself underneath my blankets, and tried to sleep.
The next day, with sunlight shining through my open window, I drew the card. Blue and green pencil crayons now lay strewn on my desk, and some forgotten on the floor. It was a simple drawing, the size of a bookmark. Forget me-nots, the faded marks of the pencil sketch peaking through the blues and greens. I had used high quality colored pencils, old ones given to me by my grandparents, so they didn’t look waxy on the paper. In the corner was a short message, just something to say we’re here for you. I left it on the counter, hidden in the envelope. My parents saw it when they came down for lunch, my mom loudly praising me and my dad grunting in agreement. After eating, my dad went to drop it off at the post office, and we would spend the next few days reminding my grandmother to check her mail. There was still the funeral, and my dad often complained about conversations with their lawyer, but the anxiety I had was gone. I looked out into the garden, noticing that the forget-me-nots had begun to bloom.
By: Yasmin N
I have read many stories about grief. In each one, they described it slightly differently: a tidal wave overwhelming you, a black hole in your chest, something huge, something destructive, something painful beyond belief. When I first met grief, it was much softer than I had expected. Grief came down from my father’s office, knocking twice on my door before entering. Grief came in the form of my mother with a face full of tears and quivering hands. She pulled me from my blankets into a hug and said, “We lost your grandfather.”
I understood the words but I pushed them aside. I had only seen my mother cry a few times and I didn’t know what to do, so I just smiled, trying to quietly reassure her. I thought of my father, who I had never seen cry, how I could comfort him. My mother stood, wiping tears and pulling herself together, urging me to follow her upstairs. I tried to gather my thoughts. My mother had lost both her parents already, but after they passed I didn't see her for weeks. This time it was different. Not more than 30 minutes could have passed between when my parents heard the news and when they told me. I didn’t know what I would find at the top of the stairs.
When I entered my dad’s office, it was normal. Dad was on the phone, talking to my grandmother, going through a checklist of “How are you?” and “Did you eat yet?”. From what I could hear, she sounded no different than when we last spoke. My grandmother sometimes has trouble understanding what’s going on around her and was probably still shocked. These were explanations I thought of after the fact. At the moment, I didn't find it strange. Then my aunt took over. Our phone didn't have good sound quality but even then you could hear how hard she was trying not to cry. That reaction, with all the tears, that's probably normal, right? Should I be crying?
I sat on the floor of my dad’s office for a while after the call ended, staring up at him. He was the one to break the silence, thinking about the last conversation he had had with my grandfather. It was over the phone, and with both of them being hard of hearing it had been little more than a greeting. Dad sounded angry, but I didn’t know who that anger was directed towards.
“At least my mom doesn’t have to deal with him anymore, all his complaining…” He laughed a bit and covered his eyes. “Guess that was our last conversation.”
Dad was never big on hugs but I didn’t know what to say so I just patted his knee. He reassured me, saying he was okay, and he and Mom began planning a dinner. It was something small, but we would cook that steak we had been saving. Dad would get some gin, my grandfather's favorite drink. When I walked downstairs I caught sight of a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter. It was my dad’s first almost successful attempt, he and Mom had been laughing as they took it out of the oven earlier this morning. I grabbed the bread knife. Toast for breakfast it is.
I didn’t see my parents until dinner time. I was vaguely aware of my dad leaving the house and later coming back, but I didn't want to see him. I spent most of the time catching up on shows I wanted to watch. The silence whenever I paused felt heavy, and it was hard to focus. I didn't feel like crying. It was an easy thing to justify at first. Things as big as death don't sink in right away, of course I wouldn't start crying now. Maybe later. I hadn't cried when my other grandparents died, but I had only met them once after all, I would cry this time.
Later came.
He and I had never been too close. It became easy to explain. We only visited once a year, if that, and he rarely could be convinced to have a conversation on the phone. Last week had been the longest conversation for years, and that was because I interviewed him for a school project. It had also been our last conversation. I wondered, if not for him, would I cry for anyone? But the thought was quickly pushed away; uncomfortable.
Over dinner, after a toast, my parents shared stories and laughed. Mom talked about how when she had first met my grandfather, it was so hard for him to pronounce her name correctly. She kept looking over at Dad, but he just stared off into the distance. I stared at my drink. The clink of ice cubes was suddenly too loud. I found myself searching, combing over every interaction with my grandfather, trying to find a sweet story I could share, trying to prove something.
"He used to read to me, when I was younger," I found myself saying. "I always got him to read the same books." But no matter what books I bought, my grandfather would read them, pausing every few sentences to clear his throat. He had a very distinct voice. Maybe it was because he smoked.
That was one of the few times my grandfather and I spent together, and I grew out of it quickly. Even without that, we would often find ourselves alone on the balcony. I would be out there to read or enjoy the view, and he would be out there to smoke. He sat in the corner of the balcony, and every time he would warn me not to sit where I could smell the smoke, that it wasn’t good for me. If it's so bad, why do you smoke? Something I often thought, more of a complaint at his nagging than anything else.
After dinner, I started cleaning the kitchen. The normal routine felt so treasonous, and I put on my headphones. My parents sat in the living room, lights off, staring out the windows, and I turned the music as high as I could . For as light as the laughter had been, how soft the words of comfort were, whenever I listened to them it felt invasive at best, accusatory at worst. It was all ridiculous. Despite conflicting thoughts, I tried to make the least amount of noise possible. I owed them this much.
The blank page sat in front of me, taunting. My parents had asked me to make a card, but each time they repeated the question they made it increasingly clear that I wouldn’t be able to wiggle my way out. So I took my sketchbook, set my colored pencils in rows around me, took my pencil, and stared at the paper. I had ideas, bouquets of roses and lilies, things certainly beyond my skill level, but hadn’t touched the paper once.
Besides, I thought, leaning back in my chair, what could be gained from a cheap card, half-hearted at best? It was late, so I took the easy out and turned off the light.
The thing about sleep though, is that you are left alone with your thoughts. Letting my mind wander brought it back to the elephant in the room. A few uneventful days didn’t give me anything better to think about, nor enough time to remove the unease that came with it. It didn’t make any sense to me, why this should put me so off-balance. Yes it was sad he was gone, but to me, he was barely ever there anyway.
Our conversations hardly ever involved more than my latest school project or the weather. He had been happy to read my writing though. One time, I sent him a full portfolio. I hadn't expected more than a “good job!” from him the next time we saw each other. It surprised me when, a few weeks later, I got a letter. It was almost four pages long, handwritten, a paragraph for each piece I had sent to him. He had listed the things he found most impressive, what he hadn’t understood, different word choices, as meticulously as any of my peers. Even my parents were surprised. It was the kindest thing he had done for me.
“You should send him your writing more often!” They said, and I had agreed. I sent him one letter in reply, thanking him, but that was it. Even for the pieces I was proud of, it became too much effort, or simply slipped my mind.
I buried myself underneath my blankets, and tried to sleep.
The next day, with sunlight shining through my open window, I drew the card. Blue and green pencil crayons now lay strewn on my desk, and some forgotten on the floor. It was a simple drawing, the size of a bookmark. Forget me-nots, the faded marks of the pencil sketch peaking through the blues and greens. I had used high quality colored pencils, old ones given to me by my grandparents, so they didn’t look waxy on the paper. In the corner was a short message, just something to say we’re here for you. I left it on the counter, hidden in the envelope. My parents saw it when they came down for lunch, my mom loudly praising me and my dad grunting in agreement. After eating, my dad went to drop it off at the post office, and we would spend the next few days reminding my grandmother to check her mail. There was still the funeral, and my dad often complained about conversations with their lawyer, but the anxiety I had was gone. I looked out into the garden, noticing that the forget-me-nots had begun to bloom.