That Friday, I knew, I will never, see that face again.
I was raised, by my maternal grandmother, when my younger brother was born, my mother dropped me off at my grandma’s, recalling how steep the stairs to the second floor was, how my grandmother would carry me on her back up and down, and I’d never forgotten how warm, her back felt, against my chest, and, maybe, it’s because of this, I’d felt this especially close attachment to my maternal grandmother, every single thing that troubled me, I’d tell her about it.
My grandmother was slimly built, her skin had lost its elasticity, but, her eyes still shone brightly, it’s, as if, a young girl lives inside of her, ready to come out, at any moment, filled her with energy. Every time I’d told her about my troubles, she would, slap my hands, told me, “Everything is bound to work out.”, this line, and her eyes, had given me the courage I’d needed in times.
With that sort of bright eyes, I thought, that my grandmother could live to a hundred, but, I was, wrong.
What crushed grandma was a serious illness, it came too fast, too hard.
As everybody was gathering in the hospital ward, discussing the treatment options, my grandmother who lay there, on the bed became especially thin and frail, with that emptiness in her eyes; I’d gone up to her, held on to her, and cried, but, my grandmother blinked, and, it’s, as if, that young adolescent girl started, dancing once more, in her eyes, and her face became filled with life once more.
“Don’t cry, you’re a boy, or, grandma will laugh at you, grandma’s just a bit tired is all.”, she’d slapped my hand, smiled, told me, “Everything will work out.”, the next day when I woke up, I went to go wake grandma up, and those eyes, they, never, opened back up again.
I didn’t ring for the doctor or the nurses, just, stared, at that face, with the jumpiness of a teenage girl, and then, there were, a few drops of water on her face; as I’d reached my hand to wipe it away, I’d realized, that the water, it came, from my own eyes, drip, drip, drip, the tears started falling down like rain, I couldn’t stop it, I didn’t want it to stop either.
“Everything will work itself out,” my grandma’s voice, seemed to ring in my ears, but, she’s a LIAR, I’d started crying, too hard that I couldn’t stand back up again. There will, NEVER, be a way again.
And so, this, is how a boy, grieved for the loss of his own grandmother, and, because he was, raised by her, that, was why her death hit him, especially hard.