Comments, please.
I didn’t want to wake up, but I had to. When I got up, I saw much the same things as before. There was more food on the table, more half-smiling, half-crying people crowded around my grandmother. My Uncles continued to clean out all of his things, and the cousins ran around in excitement over all the new things, not fully grasping what had happened.
Everyone hugged me and shook my hand and smiled at me and said they knew how I felt. I nodded and looked at my feet, but inside I thought, “Really? That’s funny because I’m not really sure I feel anything right now.”
I felt left out, to be honest. My Grandmother had all these people to love and support her. She shuddered slightly at the word “widow”, but aside from that, she was encompassed in love. My aunts and Uncles all had each other and the old friends who were coming, and they looked very lifted-up by all the caring.
But I wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to laugh and reminisce and go through his things. I wanted to run. I wanted to curl up in a secret place, turn up my music, stare at the stars and just cry my eye-balls out. I didn’t feel sorry for him. He wasn’t the one who had to go through all the old pictures and documents, the knick-knacks and trinkets. He didn’t have to see all the mourning or feel the pain any more. He was free. I just missed him. But how could I show it here. I had to be the strong one my inner voice said, as it had for so long. No weakness, no pain, not where others could see, that was how I was hard-wired to be.
Mom kept asking me over and over if I was ok. I wanted to scream, but I just nodded. Finally she said “You act like you didn’t really know him.” Then I REALLY wanted to scream. I knew what they all wanted. They wanted to see me cry. They wanted to take care of me like a wounded animal that they could hug back to health. But I wasn’t like them. I would remember, I would cry, I would hurt, but not here, with all the casseroles and old friends and black and white newspaper clippings of him from before I even knew him. This was their way, their memories, their idea of how he was. I couldn’t talk about his first vegetable garden, or how proud he had been of his kids.
I remembered when my brother was born, and how nervous he’d been, and how I had thought it odd since he had seen plenty of grandkids be born fine already. I remembered when he moved his business to a new building and how excited he’d been. I remembered how he and my dad used to disagree over everything and how I had thought it was funny since they were so alike. I remembered when I had accepted Christ, and how he’d been proud of me. I remember wanting to see him look at me like that always. I remember all the things I’d done, always thinking, “Won’t he be so happy!” Those were my memories, and no one else could really share them. But how could I explain that. My tongue was numb, and the words wouldn’t form.
The next day, I let my family go ahead to the main house. “I need a shower. I’ll be along later.” I said. After they went, I showered, trying to scrub off all the awkwardness. Then I went to my room. I turned on my music, and I thought. I was so happy that he was in heaven, and not in pain anymore. I was guiltily relieved that he had seen me graduated, since I was the only grandchild who he would get to now. But, I thought to myself, he won’t see me married. He won’t get to hold my first child. He’ll never know if I will get to write that book we talked about. He won’t even see me go to college this fall. And who will take care of grandmother? She won’t be happy living all by herself, but can she really leave the house they raised their family in?
I got on youtube, back to something that was familiar, back to the old AMVs. As I watched all the struggles of the characters I knew, I wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Even if they were separated from their goals, they still had chances to change things, to help those they cared for, who would come after. My Grandpa and helped me so much. He had helped so many people.
When I realized how much slack there was to take up, and how I would have to continue toward the goals without him, and that he would never see me succeed, I really did cry. Alone, in front of my computer, I cried.
Maybe I’m weird. They say I’m insensitive, but I just feel that going on is the only reasonable option, and the best way to do that, is to continue. I WILL get through college and I WILL continue writing, and I WILL take care of my family as best I can.
I pray that I’ll see him in heaven, and what I did or didn’t do won’t matter. The garden and the old tools will be long forgotten. I’ll just say, “I’m so glad to see you again!”
In my mind, I hear him say “You’ve made it! I’m so proud of you! Come meet the others.”
I often think death is easiest on the person who died, especially if the y were a Christian. They don’t have to figure out what to throw away, or how to pay the bills, or who gets what. They just sit with God and wait for all the ones they’ve loved to catch up.
I feel selfish, crying when I know somewhere, he’s happy. I feel bad that I can’t really cry for all my relatives and friends. But maybe, in the end, it doesn’t matter how you cope, just so long as you do it. Crying and mourning are all healthy ways of expressing emotion so you can move on, but so is just passing around a plate of cookies and looking up at the wall at his kids and grandkids and all the people he loved and just being happy that he was there when we needed him, and that he will have a good reward.
