I thought I would overcome it within a fraction of seconds since she was old and had lived a long life with her last days with us. The funeral happened at 1:00 AM and I saw her with her eyes closed and peace unleashed on her face as if she was knocking on heaven’s door. It didn’t dawn on me until then that a part of my life was scraped with an axe and my heart with all its wounds held tightly together, frozen and scarred was cracked open to overflow through all its bends.
Sometimes the grief is so strong, intense and the amplitude is too large to pour it down your eyes. You just sit there waiting patiently for the day to bleed into the night, hoping that you can start living like before but you just can’t seem to try. I didn’t know since then what had happened to me that the air tasted different and the rustling of leaves was heavier like a storm had arrived without me knowing the roots of its origin.
I dont remember when was the last time we spoke and I dont recall a single moment when we talked about death and how she would feel afterlife. Every now and then while I visited her I let her rest not wanting to disturb the equilibrium of her medicines that helped her sleep. Now all I want is to have another chance. Even a bleak one would do.
To tell her that I love her. To tell her that she mattered. To tell her that she was the best grandmother the world could ever offer. To tell her that all though I shouted at her most times, I didn’t mean any of them. To say, goodbye.
But words…how little they mean, when you’re a little too late.