Yellow
I had just started to carry on. The sun was shining again, I wasn't crying anymore. I had started to appreciate my life as it is, and that it is. It must have been about a month ago now. It was so raw, so unchangeable, and I was so helpless. I felt like a rock on the ground, being kicked about, unable to stop the blows and the pain that sent me into fits of hysteria. Why? Why now? Why did it hurt so much? It still hurts! The images are still so real and fresh in my mind...
'Look at the sky' I told myself, glad to see that i couldn't see the stars...if the clouds hadn't been there, i might have made a wish, and the lack of result would have been the final straw...'up there is total, ultimate freedom, down here isn't perminant'. A woman opened the front door, she smiled. How could someone work at a place like this and smile? How is it possible to smile at those affected, those who are there to pay respects? My uncle walked into the wrong door, i pointed at a name on the door next to him that read 'Ethel Robinson', it was strange to see her last name, my last name, at a place like this. The first thing to hit me in that room was the smell. I passed it off as something preserving her and looked around to find what I had come for. Behind the door, a wooden - maybe mahogany, who knows, box on a stand. Behind it a lid, in the same shape and size, propped against the wall. Once again her name, in golden print, stood out to me as strange. We gathered around, and just stared in silence. She was so tiny, like a child, and so still, like a doll, but what really stood out to me was her nose. It was crooked, her nostrels slightly flared...they weren't that way when she was alive, were they that way when she died? My uncle Ian grabbed her head and kissed it. He stroked the hair that fell out of her green hat...the hat she bought especially to wear to my dad's investiture...she wore the same outfit that day that she wore in her coffin, at the funeral, and when she was cremated. She had never been more proud than the day she drove to the palace. I was so stoic, so indiferent, until i turned around and saw my dad crying. Suddenly it was just us two in the room, and he told me to hold her hand. It was so cold and so hard. That's when it hit me, everyone dies, not only do we die, but we become dead. We never come back, and we have no choice, this is where we are all heading...this is what we live for, and instead of trying to make the most of living, i found myself wondering what the point was, why was anything worth anything. Back at her house I held my dad's hand as the tears fell into my tea. His hand, so warm, and big, and comforting.
I can't help imagining the day when I hold that hand and it isn't warm anymore.
I keep on having dreams where my parents are dead, and that they died in unralitsic, gruesome ways. I wake up crying. It scares me so much.
I'm going to be alone some day.
'Look at the sky' I told myself, glad to see that i couldn't see the stars...if the clouds hadn't been there, i might have made a wish, and the lack of result would have been the final straw...'up there is total, ultimate freedom, down here isn't perminant'. A woman opened the front door, she smiled. How could someone work at a place like this and smile? How is it possible to smile at those affected, those who are there to pay respects? My uncle walked into the wrong door, i pointed at a name on the door next to him that read 'Ethel Robinson', it was strange to see her last name, my last name, at a place like this. The first thing to hit me in that room was the smell. I passed it off as something preserving her and looked around to find what I had come for. Behind the door, a wooden - maybe mahogany, who knows, box on a stand. Behind it a lid, in the same shape and size, propped against the wall. Once again her name, in golden print, stood out to me as strange. We gathered around, and just stared in silence. She was so tiny, like a child, and so still, like a doll, but what really stood out to me was her nose. It was crooked, her nostrels slightly flared...they weren't that way when she was alive, were they that way when she died? My uncle Ian grabbed her head and kissed it. He stroked the hair that fell out of her green hat...the hat she bought especially to wear to my dad's investiture...she wore the same outfit that day that she wore in her coffin, at the funeral, and when she was cremated. She had never been more proud than the day she drove to the palace. I was so stoic, so indiferent, until i turned around and saw my dad crying. Suddenly it was just us two in the room, and he told me to hold her hand. It was so cold and so hard. That's when it hit me, everyone dies, not only do we die, but we become dead. We never come back, and we have no choice, this is where we are all heading...this is what we live for, and instead of trying to make the most of living, i found myself wondering what the point was, why was anything worth anything. Back at her house I held my dad's hand as the tears fell into my tea. His hand, so warm, and big, and comforting.
I can't help imagining the day when I hold that hand and it isn't warm anymore.
I keep on having dreams where my parents are dead, and that they died in unralitsic, gruesome ways. I wake up crying. It scares me so much.
I'm going to be alone some day.
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