Mithykster

As I propel through journey’s of grief, some further from the path than others I find these specific comforts in the digital realm. I still read through messages to an old friend, and our jokes sometimes echo in my mind as a way to amuse myself. I don’t find myself yearning for our contact as much as before; but perhaps rather the products of our conversation. The new content we produced that now has gone out of production. It’s all documented in our digital features, but I doubt it will tell me something new anymore, even if I can continuously think and guess what I’d say, and what the response would be.

My grandma’s passing has left me with about 50 pictures and 4 videos in my personal collection. There is a certainty that there are more, but I still haven’t received them. I’ve scoured through them and talk to her face that is just a manifestation of the light at that moment as if I can continue to pursue her aliveness. It seems like the woman that withered away is much farther than the one that used to join us on vacations and playfully slapped my hand with significant force when I was not quick enough to pull it away from the table. Her presence was always marked with aliveness and a spark in her eyes, leading me to the thought that her death is so out of character that there’s no reality in it. I think of the woman that gave me wet kisses, that bought me to school and walked miles away from me when I couldn’t keep up and who was always swinging her leg sitting in our blue chair. She always retained her humour which was so iconic I thought it should be written down in the history books, but I barely recall more than five of her common phrases. She feels closer than ever, and it frightens me that with every day I spend the distance becomes greater, with my grief not being a matter of a week but rather of months in which there is some supposed deadline for tearfulness even though the reservoir still fills up. I am frightened to let go of my grief, carrying it in my bag alongside my nifty belongings for the fear that if I let go, it is like the weight of the loss will sit heavier on my conscience.

It’s been more than 10 years since my first Guinea Pig passed. I recall his brother searching the pen and my initial thought being such a profound sadness at my inability to explain dead to this dumb little being as I towered over it. Now I find myself unable to comprehend. A quiet certainty that we’ll talk again and a constant floating question of ‘where are you?’ that perhaps should be rephrased as ‘what are you?”

I hope you are dancing and swinging, that somewhere there’s still that twinkle in your eye, that maybe you can sit inside my chest and smell the flowers when I invite you to. That when I eat the things you like, you are sitting next to me enjoying it as well. I hope you miss me too.

Why do I cry when I don’t accept this distance, while at the same time having made peace with it?