Through the lens of my innate spectrum of feelings, grief is weird.
Grief is consumingly eerie.
Grief is eerily consuming.
Eating and performing the most mundane of daily tasks prompt eyes to cry rivers of guilt that I can’t share my beating heart with her.
I know this is the order of things.
Yet, grief feeds the irrational. It feeds dreams and inflamates nostalgia.
She is not here and she can’t taste the sweetness of waffles with maple syrup.
The taste of toast. The taste of filtered tap water. The taste of root beer.
Grief makes the food turn into sand in my mouth.
Grief allows your life to move forward through a most awkward prism.
She couldn’t eat anymore, barely drank through a straw.
Consuming guilt transcends into tsunamis, which are swallowing the shore of an island filled with good memories, words I didn’t get to tell her and aspects of a life that is no longer.
I could easily reach for the profane words, that are swarming within my reach, to express my anger for one of the most natural and imminent phenomena in life - as we know it - death. Painful death.
But I won’t. Out of respect for the departed, I will exercise control over such impulses.
My maternal grandmother had a painful life.
A peculiar life which eventually had ramifications in the lives of her descendants.
I look in the mirror and I see her. It's not about me, but her.
Her eyes are my eyes. Her nose became my nose.
I see her eyes which are now buried and closed forever.
A little bit of her still lives within me. I may pass it on some day. Or not.
Her beating heart is no more. Her pain, who knows. Who knows what form it took.
I hope she found peace amongst distant suns.