The words he never wrote about me
Of loneliness, deaths and Old age
There’s a starkness to the memory of him lying in that hospital bed, motionless, that digs at me. A starkness in the cold, antiseptic smell of the room that's hard to forget, an image that keeps replaying whenever I close my eyes. It was more than just saying goodbye—it was a preview of mortality, served cold and unadorned. The last time I saw him, there was no hint of the person who had lived so vibrantly. Just a shell, a reminder of how quickly everything can end. That shit is terrifying, not peaceful or contemplative—just raw, unfiltered fear.
Then came the wake, and with it, the letter. My aunt's voice carried across the room, reciting his thoughts and memories—a roll call of everyone who touched his life. Friends, neighbors, even the house help were honored for their dedication. But me? There was nothing. Silence where my name should have been. It felt like being invisible in a crowded room, unheard amid the chatter. He recounted everyday trivialities, yet completely omitted his own granddaughter. As she continued, a cold realization settled in my stomach: in the vast narrative of his life, I was merely an oversight, an empty space he inadvertently skipped over. It wasn't intentional, but that almost made it worse. The inadvertent omission cut deep, a stark, raw pain that echoed with the silence of my unspoken name.
The next day, my aunt lost it—her grief manifesting in a spectacular meltdown that turned into a twisted family spectacle. Plates smashed, voices raised. Grief, I’ve learned, isn’t pretty. It’s not solemn or dignified; it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s desperately human. Her breakdown, obnoxious as it felt, was just another expression of pain, another way to lash out at the world that ripped him from us. It showed me that there’s no right way to deal with the void someone leaves behind. It’s all just clawing at whatever can keep us above the surface.
And then there’s my grandmother. Every day, she sits by the window, staring out at a world she seems less and less a part of. There’s a loneliness to her silhouette that’s crushing. To think of her and my granddad, partners for over sixty years, and now she’s just... alone. Watching her is a gut punch, a brutal reminder that sometimes love isn’t enough to stave off the solitude that creeps in with old age. It’s not just sad; it’s terrifying. To see how easily a life shared can turn into solitary confinement—how can I not question everything I know about love and companionship? It makes me wonder about the futility of it all, about the inevitable decay of connections we hold dear.
This isn’t comforting. It doesn’t bring me peace. It scares the hell out of me. I'm left questioning the very fabric of relationships- what's the point if it can all evaporate, leaving one half alone to stare out a window? It makes the certainties of life feel like a farce.
Grief is a guillotine, sharp and final, hope is chronic bleeding, never clotting, always flowing.
So here I am, not finding solace in soft words or silver linings, but facing the raw, brutal truths head-on. Sometimes, we are forgotten, and it's not a gentle nudge but a slap. We scream into the void, not because we hope for an answer but because it's all we can do. I’m not writing this to tie it up with a neat bow, to say it's all part of a bigger plan or that there's a lesson to be learned. I'm writing because it hurts, because it's unfair, and because, despite everything, this is the only way I know how to make sense of the chaos.
Being overlooked in his final words doesn't bring me quiet dignity. It brings anger, confusion, and a deep, lingering pain. And I'm here, raw and unguarded, owning that pain, because it's mine, and it's real. And maybe, just maybe, by laying it all out, I can start to rise above these remnants of grief that are stuck in my throat.
To be left out of the story is to understand that we are all authors of our own, that we write not for the eyes of others, but for the sanctity of our souls.
blakekathryn
origamiaround
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
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