It was July of my second year, I had one last macro-economics exam left for the semester. I decided to stay at uni for the weekend to study, despite being told that my grandmother was being administered morphine to numb the pain of her bone cancer.
I thought, "Gee, I only have one exam left and then I will be able to go home and see her again within a week". That was the Friday. On that very Friday, my heart was pulling towards home but my mind was persisting to stay, with logic and discipline. The following Sunday, while I was curled up in my warm bed, I was awoken by a phone call. A phone call I wasn't ready to answer. A phone call I wish I never answered.
Sure I was sad for a few days. Then there was the reassurance that she was in a better place. I didn't let it soak and become musty. I let it run through me... built the altar and left the sacrifice to burn out. But the smell of smoke lingered on me. You lose something in it, but you take something from it.
The last time I saw her, I forgot. I know that the last time I saw her she was lying in a coffin... and I know the second last time I saw her she was lying in a bed. But I forget the last time I saw her as she was. And with each day I forget more and more. And I only remember the absence, what it's like when she isn't around. You lose something, but you take something else.
I forgot what it feels like when she's around, but I know what it feels like when she's not around.
In the past three years, more people I know have slipped out of mortality. Some of them were just acquaintances, others were friends and some were people who were dear to people that are dear to me.
If people you know are dying, how different does that make you? What sets you apart? When will you stop breathing? When will your presence cease? When will your absence begin? And who will remember you as you were?
You think people care about you as much as you care about yourself. You think your company is valuable and that you are leaving a significant mark on the world. Do people see you as you see yourself? As you are, you are forgettable.
My grandmother was a brilliant human being, wise, kind and respectable. But those are adjectives I am comfortable using to describe her because the memories I have of her are leaving me. I don't know her smell anymore. I don't know her voice without thinking of the words she use to say. I can't remember the colour of her eyes without looking at a photograph. And if I do remember something about her, I can't trust that it is, as she was.
The smoke may linger in the beginning, but it wears off. You get immersed in other smells and then you are left with hints of it that come and go, depending on the direction the wind takes.
Death, in the end, is the absence you will leave behind. The absence of you, as you are.
The last time I saw her, I forgot. I know that the last time I saw her she was lying in a coffin... and I know the second last time I saw her she was lying in a bed. But I forget the last time I saw her as she was. And with each day I forget more and more. And I only remember the absence, what it's like when she isn't around. You lose something, but you take something else.
I forgot what it feels like when she's around, but I know what it feels like when she's not around.
In the past three years, more people I know have slipped out of mortality. Some of them were just acquaintances, others were friends and some were people who were dear to people that are dear to me.
If people you know are dying, how different does that make you? What sets you apart? When will you stop breathing? When will your presence cease? When will your absence begin? And who will remember you as you were?
You think people care about you as much as you care about yourself. You think your company is valuable and that you are leaving a significant mark on the world. Do people see you as you see yourself? As you are, you are forgettable.
My grandmother was a brilliant human being, wise, kind and respectable. But those are adjectives I am comfortable using to describe her because the memories I have of her are leaving me. I don't know her smell anymore. I don't know her voice without thinking of the words she use to say. I can't remember the colour of her eyes without looking at a photograph. And if I do remember something about her, I can't trust that it is, as she was.
The smoke may linger in the beginning, but it wears off. You get immersed in other smells and then you are left with hints of it that come and go, depending on the direction the wind takes.
Death, in the end, is the absence you will leave behind. The absence of you, as you are.
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