I am convinced part of me died with my grandfather. My grief is the equivalent of a black hole, this intangible being existing alongside me that consumes any and all joy within a mile’s radius. I had tried to pen it on the fortieth day: “I am in a state of inexpressible torment, you do not understand. Can’t you see I am hurting, are you dense? Hold me, rub my back, sing to me, read to me, but leave me alone because your presence is despicable.” Your, meaning everyone I knew, everyone and everything that offered even the slightest shred of respite. And I meant every word.
Everyone’s favorite thing to say about my unfortunate circumstance is “there is no right or wrong way to do it” and “it gets better with time”. The latter’s a special kind of infuriating. It isn’t as if I have a choice. I cannot possibly spend the rest of my life languishing, can I? (Can I?)
I existed as a monotonous shell. My days were bleak, my nights worse. I was spiraling. Certain my newfound pessimism was off the charts, I pooled what was left of my savings, marched up to my mother, and told her I was ready to fly off alone on a haphazard vacation. Some gentle convincing took place and I was in a window seat two weeks later, marvelling at a spotless windowpane. Comfort came in waves when the plane took off and I slept through a din of three wailing infants. I like to think it’s a testament to the years I’ve spent being a glorified waitress in the sky.
I chose to have a long layover transiting. It was beautiful and perfect and everything I wished it would be. I loved that I was alone. In a toilet mirror, my reflection produced a woman still too skinny to be lithe, too young to be weary. I needed to fix my hair. I needed some sleep. I let my friends and family know I was safe and on my way. Before I knew it, I was sitting gobsmacked on the gigantic bed of the five-star hotel room I’d booked, about to burst.
My time was romanticised to a tee. I let my hair loose in the most literal sense, an unorthodox milestone not many would understand. I had an abundance of freedom, the whole world to myself, had all the tea I could drink in coffeeshops. Discovering various furniture stores was an unexpected favorite. Who would’ve thought I’d be excited over a floor lamp shortly after burying my grandfather?
“Soul Seeking Adventure” was what I wanted to dub my vacation, the type they prattle about in self-help books. Any idiot could figure out I ran away instead, coughing up all the money I had left. Pusillanimous is apt. Cretinous even better. I had a multitude of things to save up for as any other frazzled twentysomething, and splurging wasn’t my brightest decision. But squashing myself in that hotel elevator did produce a delightful albeit startling turning point: it dawned on me that I was achieving everything I thought I would with a partner, on my own. There was a different kind of closure in this, in that I didn’t have to find my freedom through a man. I could claw to earn more hoop earrings alone, the same way I ungracefully escaped those steel doors. You should’ve seen the hotel staff scatter to help.
My dinner was instant noodles and Heaven & Earth for three nights in a row. I didn’t care that I couldn’t afford room service. I’d briefly considered poking my head into the spa. The pool looked enticing enough, but I decided against it too. My mother would never forgive me if I drowned.
I didn’t really get to bury my grandfather.
He was shrouded in white, just nonchalantly lying there, the grown man who spent the last years of his life insisting on walking despite an incurable, physical paralysis. My breakdown was in anguished sobs my family was quick to hush. I was instructed you shouldn’t cry too loudly, and I wanted to snap does it fucking matter? I wanted to rage. I had heard of his death just two days prior, had spent hours poring over my agony wondering if the last time I saw him would be the day he told me he would never love me any less. I had to see him, had to rake my eyes over what was left of him to believe he had really died, to convince myself the news articles weren’t some sadistic fabrication. Echoes of his voice crash over me still. In my heart of hearts, I felt I deserved to lament.
Because I am a woman, I wasn’t allowed to watch them lower him into the earth. My friends did that for me instead, witnessing his last moments on my behalf. I was told what to wear for the funeral, as if the first thing on my mind was to materialize in a skimpy, strapless number. To this day, I remain agitated.
