My Grandmother’s Gravesite, 1 Year Later

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As a teenager, death feels much more…awkward.
Your mortality has convinced itself that it is something else,
and when you hear about someone else’s Grandma dying you think
“I’m totally fine.”
It is only when someone you love is gone that it becomes real.
To you, a teenager, death is like a first kiss,
you stumble through it, emotions running high,
words unable to leave your throat as is you had been choking on air this whole time.
At first, death was like a distant family member you met at one of those claustrophobic
get-togethers, and then you talk to them more and more and more and more,
until eventually, it knows you so well that it is sitting next to you Grandmother the night before she passes, as you watch her pale skin, a bright, shining star fading in the universe.
I visited my Grandmother’s gravesite the other day. It was the one year anniversary of her death.
The crying did not start immediately.
At first, it was held back by everyone arriving 15 minutes later than the agreed upon 3 o’clock,
but, ya know, apparently, that’s the Denton way.
Eventually, my mother pulled out the flowers she had brought with her,
placed a vase on her tombstone next to her name,
and watered it.
We joked that the rain was would give it plenty of water,
but I assure you no one was drowning more than me.
I choked on air for the second time in my life that day.
The first time happened 365 days earlier.


Thanks for reading and bye for now, Friendos!

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