Once again I find myself wondering about where I have ended up and why it is that in spite of having a lot of peace in life now, somewhere in my mind I am still waiting for a shoe to drop down on me. This morning was a good morning – a few books came, I brewed a good coffee and enjoyed it. I will be meeting friends in the evening and I’ve been working on an SOP and looking up some affordable courses to do to upskill a little. And yet, and yet…
I suppose it must be grief brought on by the losses I’ve encountered that make me so digress. In my childhood this time of year would fill me with happiness because next month was a month of celebrations and joy – my father’s birthday, the Pujas and my own birthday and so energies would be high, shopping would be done, ideas for the bash would start to ferment in my brain…and now, even though books are coming and people are calling to ask for gift suggestions or telling me they have ideas in store, even though the promise of revelry is nigh, the sadness with which I wake up in the morning and go make coffee happens to be staying with me. A friend of my father’s, the quintessential cool uncle told me the other day over a scone and coffee that it is too soon to feel that things will be okay, to believe it in my core being.
I suppose also that while they did harm, my parents did raise me with some values and appreciation for the finer things in life such as a good meal, a story told well or the satisfaction of seeing a good day’s work yield a good night’s rest. But when the sun goes down and the artificial lights start to glow, sometimes I feel sad and want the world to be silent and to mourn with me. My grief weighs me down and makes me yell in pain, but all I can do is keep my head down and prepare for the next day. This too is living, this is what people don’t talk about when they talk about loving someone – no one talks about the people they leave behind, the rooms they leave empty and the smell of them that wafts out of their moth ball lined clothes and their favorite recipe for chicken curry.
This house used to prepare a meal for three and then four. Then it went back to three and then two and now one. In that time, I lived a lifetime emotionally and thirty years biologically. I took a break and went to check on the chicken in the kitchen that mom used to make when I fell sick with tummy ache. She won’t make it ever again nor will my father come back with biriyani to make me feel happy after a nasty fever breaks. But the last time a viral laid me flat and it broke on the eighth day, I did find my feet gyrated to the biriyani place and a plate was had sitting under a fan that squeaked because they had forgotten to clean it and check the rotor for rust.
And although sometimes I feel this way, I feel that nothing will be okay again, I live. I live because I must, because I find joy in little things that life has shown to me – the food that’s cooking must be ate, the books that came must be read and I must talk to my friends again and tell them of my day, my joy and my sorrow and ask them – or rather ask myself – why then do I weep?
I weep because I mourn the people I loved, much like a book must end for it to feel real. I weep because it wasn’t always harm and anger and thrown things or raised voices. I remember days of tranquility and reading and the smells of the kitchen waking me up – of ThumsUp and Coke and cake and pudding, much like in an Enid Blyton story. But now I no longer read Enid Blyton because the worlds that Terry Pratchett builds make more sense to me now.
I suppose this too is life – walking on, as your height changes, your weight changes, the style of clothes you wear changes – changes, changes and changes, the one constant.
I suppose I should shut up now and when I am done mourning, pour myself a cool drink and feel happy about meeting my friend. Is it true then that though sad and grieving we do end up slowly learning to laugh again?
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