I never thought that I would experiance to grieve over someone who has died in my own family. If my relatives did, I always thought that I wouldn't really mind much. Simply because I don't remember them, and harshly enough, I just didn't care. I thought, "People die every day. So what?"
Those are the words from an inexperience and selfish people. I feel ashamed I even thought that way. I didn't understand, and I should have, because I loose her every Sunday at 4:00. But, maybe that's because I knew she'd be back two weeks later. I knew that life was fragile as glass. But, because of the past, all the horrible memories I had with my relatives when I was 6 and 7, formed a heartless heart towards them. I was bullied there, unloved, and teased. I hated them from the very core of their existence.
I forgot what month it was, maybe February or January, my family got a phone call. I was on the computer, as usual, talking to my cousins who live with us here in Alaska.
Shula, Grandpa's dead.
After hearing that...I just kept on typing. Just kept on talking. I didn't know what to do, or how to react. If there was one relative that I still had respect for, it was my Grandpa. I remember the days when he would pick me up after kindergarten and hold my hand as we crossed the busy streets of Los Angeles. I'd always look up at him and stare at his ages droopy skin around his mouth and eyes.
I remember he carried the bag of clothes my teacher gave to me, because her daughter out grew them, and she kindly passed it down to me. Grandpa carried that bag of used, but well maintained clothes home as he held my small hands.
Another memory was when my oldest brother and I talked about how Grandpa cuts hair very nicely, and stylish (unlike mom). Grandpa was a peaceful person, quite, mild tempered. Everything that Grandma didn't seem to be. She was quite opposite, but that's another story.
Then it hit me.
Your lying, Grandpa's not dead!
It's true...I'm sort of tearing up, and my parents are sort of crying.
I heard that, when people die, the reaction to those who hear the news is denial. It's true, because after I heard it, I didn't believe it..or didn't want to believe it. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I wanted to shed some grief, but nothing happened. I stared hating myself after that. Why? Why am I not crying? What's wrong with me? I slept that night with memories of the past that I forcefully locked away. It took years to forget, and it only took a phone call and one sentence to bring everything that I hid away escape back into my memory.
I promised myself that I'll NEVER go back to Los Angeles, or that house. But after a few days or so, I found myself on a plane headed back to the past that ruined my family. I was returning, back to where the people who took advantage of us, who bullied us, and used us. I was six then, young, and filled with anger because of the wrongs they did to me, my mom, and my brothers. Of course I wanted revenge. But I'm 15 now, and I know better than the six year old me. I agreed to go back to settle things. My motives were to seek forgiveness, and maybe, feel the love that lacked so badly in the past.
The moment I saw the stares that lead to The House I began to remember memories that was hidden behind the very ends of my memory.
We use to play here...and I'd always beg for a turn on the scooter.
That's the fence that the neighbor gave us food through.
That's...the corner where I found him crying.
To Be Continued
( This post is getting too long. It looks scary to read )