I find the strangest comfort in the sight of my own face in the mirror — looking at myself the way that she would. Or the way that I would look at her. We converse there in my eyes. Even still. It is the oddest form of self-soothing I have ever practiced instinctively. And I find that I am grateful.
Even to myself.
I believe she would love that.
In fact, I know that she does.
I am a world. And a world lives in me.
In that world, we are all still together.
That world is true.
I’ll keep saying it to myself.
On the whole, common people tend to lose grip entirely on what is true. I’m coming to think they may even do it on purpose. And I — in my current state of near debilitating sadness — have begun to understand it. A distraction of power and performance and title and collection and status… “He who has the gold makes the rules” may very well be our reality. An incredibly powerful one at that. Would that I could deny it entirely.
But hear me, reader: Being real does not make it true. So, don’t let it tell you who/what you are.
Reality is not the boss of you.
My grandmother (for whom there is no adjective other than “mine”) — with all the imperfections our relationship housed — had been a deeply profound consistency in an otherwise dark and difficult life. I know we most likely do not know each other very well, dear reader. But I do hope to bring to you more of myself in the coming times. I am not very good at this. Introversion beckons. Even more so in grief. But I just have to tell you…
We have been separated — my grandmama and I — for 100 days today.
100 days I have wandered here, untethered, saying words here she will never read.
This side of glory.
Whatever glory really is.
O, friend. How my heart aches. I have known pain. I have. Agony, even. Some might even argue that I have known torment.
But this. This is the darkest and most holy ache I believe even my own body has ever sustained. I am so raw. So easily bruised.
So aware of how true it all has to be.
In all of my anger (and know that there is much anger), I cling nonetheless.
I follow the path of dark and holy wisdom before me.
I lash my heart to the ancient mast.
I, as Peter, know (however resentfully sometimes) that there is nowhere else to go.
I let it wash over me.
I go on with days. With lives. With my learning. With my becoming.
I will endure the ache. As I know that it, too, has a final day.
I will not be afraid.