Category: death, grief, and mourning

A Death in 2014.

My eyes haven’t let the tears fall. I am afraid that if they do – they would never stop.

It was an extraordinary day. We were high on coca-cola and all you can eat pizza. We gathered our tickets together and traded them for a whoopee cushion, three lollipops, a soldier with a parachute, a ball with Patrick’s face on it (Spongebob’s BFF), a yellow plastic man that sticks to the wall when you throw him, a Styrofoam plane, a hand fan with a butterfly design, and a metallic blue spring.

We stepped onto the landmines late in the evening, The first blow took us by surprise. Bringing us to our knees. Frantic voices, mouths moving, unheard words. The blast blew our eardrums out.

We didn’t need the ability to hear to know that more blasts were coming. Every hurried step triggered another blast.

He was dead.

And that is what it has felt like every day since we found out.

The landmines keep exploding. The shrapnel surrounds us. Cuts into the deepest parts of our hearts.

People keep talking. Smiling. Embracing us.

Life is what it has always been.

Wake up. Pee. Brush your teeth.

Shower. Dry off. Get dressed.

Eat breakfast. Walk to the car.

Start the car. Go to work.

Finish your shift. Go to school.

Life is what it always was.

Landmines keep exploding.

The earth keeps on turning.

Days will turn into weeks.

Weeks will turn into months.

A year will come.

Our hearing might return.

–S.

A Letter to my Dead Grandfather.

What if you never left?

I saw a picture of you holding me as a baby.

But I’ve never felt that.

My mom says that you talked to me as a baby.

But I’ve never heard that.

You’d have more than a little to drink every night.

But I’ve never smelled that.

Word on the street is that whatever needed fixing, you were the man.

But I’ve never seen that.

If you ever cooked,

I’ve never tasted it.

You died. I have no memories. How can I feel a connection to you?

When we visited grandma eleven years ago, I found a box of pictures in the room I was supposed to be sleeping in. As everyone slept, I lined the pictures up on the carpet. Some were of you when you were younger. Some were of grandma. Some were of you two together. They were all in black and white.

I wished that you could reach out to me. Say something. Anything.

Let me know you are here. I wonder what kind of life you imagined for me.

Life is confusing and complicated.

When grandma died, your daughters stopped speaking to one another. I wonder if my aunt even knows about the box full of pictures. I wonder if they are collecting dust underneath the bed. I wish she would have sent half of them to me. I know that I would’ve stared at them for hours. I would’ve wondered if your smile was real. I would have searched for clues. I would’ve run my fingers down every picture.

Mom sometimes tells me stories about you that she remembers.

I know what it is like to love a person you’ve never met.

I know what it is like to miss a person you’ve never known.

Grandpa.

Where are you?

–S.

I don’t understand any of it.

Another letter written to my dead grandmother from years ago.

Grandma,

Love is a strange thing. Love in connection with death is even stranger. It’s when you no longer inhabit the earth that the regret hits. All of the phone calls you should have made. The time you should’ve spent. The memories you should’ve made.

I have to believe that in some way this will reach you. That in some way, shape, or form – it still can.

Some days it scares me that the memory of your laugh and your voice is fading. It scares me that people immediately get caught up in the politics of it all. Where did the mourning go?

People prepare you for heartbreak. And sex. And to cook. To clean. To love. To remember to feed the dog. To take responsibility for your actions. To say sorry.

They don’t prepare you for death.

And maybe that’s why we all act so differently. For some, it’s the pain that comes with waking up every morning. For some, it’s their smile and how it will never be fully genuine again, never reach their eyes. For some, it’s burying any real emotion, six feet.

For others, it happens at random moments. The wind against their face. Blades of grass brushing against legs. The sun burning the skin. Rain hitting the window. Or it hits every few months. Or years. The darkness finds its way into your bedroom. It sleeps with you. It eats with you. It bathes with you. It breaths with you.

I won’t tell you what it is for me. Just know that life is what it always was. And then some days – I remember. And life becomes something entirely different.

I don’t understand many things. They crash into me and knock me over. And I don’t understand them.

Love is a strange thing.

Death is even stranger.

Mourning is the strangest of them all.

I’m still loving on you girl. I know that you’re still holding it down – wherever it is that you are.

–S.