“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”
―Isaac Asimov
Hello there, Hivers!
It's been a long time since I last ranted about anything. Today, it's just about something that weighs heavy on myself. As of two weeks ago, I joined the percentage of the population with no living grandparents. My grandmother died. And it just a pitiful death.
It only took the death of my grandfather and the mistreatment of my eldest uncle to make the oak of a woman crack under the pressure of life. She passed away. Perhaps it happened during her sleep. I can't tell. We received a call and that was it. Mom had been helping her during the previous days and she was already in bed. She had stopped eating some days before her demise. The only respite about this is the fact that she's finally resting. Maybe she has met grandpa on the other side. I can't tell. Can't tell at all.
I loved my grandma. But she was a complex entity. Her personality always exuded the remnants of cruel rearing. The same kind of parenting she passed upon her children, especially her daughters. Some of that cruelty was still on my mom's parenting style. Though I believe it had been toned down from what it actually was. I have heard stories of harsh punishments and herbal remedies that are fuel for horror tales.
But then, she was also the kind of woman who would be the epitome of service. That was her way of showing love. And she tried to be of service until she couldn't move by herself. I believe passing away comes as a way of pride. Being idle in bed for a woman who had been housekeeping since she was around the age of 15 can't be easy.
We went around the funeral in the quickest way possible. These services are expensive. The burials too. Both are mostly crap. Her coffin was the ugliest excuse of woodworking I have seen.
She was buried alongside my grandpa and it rained from the moment we came into the cemetery until the grave was closed. Like a faint weep for the end of life. A sad burial, for a sad death.
I never thought I could be sadder than when grandpa died. But having lost both is worse now. There are no more stories or sweets or hugs or words of love. At least, not from those who meant a lot to me. I still have memories and those will haunt me for a while until my jar outgrows the grief.
Worse of all, I lost my drinking partner during family reunions...
...but that's life.
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