Grief: That Five Letter Word
It has impeccable timing. Intimidating in size, and with a mind of its own. It’s a door that slowly creaks open, ever so slightly so you don’t hear it—but as it approaches, the creaking becomes deafening—thundering even.
Tonight, I saw stars in the sky. Considering the pollution of the city—this was a phenomenon. The stars were close in distance and, if watched intently, they seemed to be connected, to form a much larger entity in space. I cannot recall the last time I paid attention to a cluster-fuck of stars, to the extent of breaking my neck counting every single one of them. I saw my grandma in them—I could see her gigantic smile and bubbling aura in the stars above the bridge of my nose. Aura is her name, pronounced so eloquently in Spanish.
I see her in the birds that fly in flocks and perch on the edges of buildings. She loved taking care of other living beings and was the biggest animal lover I knew—apart from my father. At her apartment in Brooklyn, pigeons and blue jays would make a pit stop at her windowsill, by the fire escape, just to seek solace. She would leave them small crumbs of food in a bowl, keeping the window open as an invitation. If she had the chance, she would have made her apartment the forever home for dozens upon dozens of dogs and cats.
Besides animals, I think she loved my father the most. Predictably to an unhealthy degree, her love mirrored possessiveness. She never remarried after she divorced her first husband, much less came close to a platonic relationship with another man. I think she wanted my father to fit that role, and so he did, with a vastly guilty conscience that would take decades to unravel and unpack. What kept him up most nights was that she lived by herself. Inevitably, he constantly sought out a way to provide her with the utmost company, even if it meant subjecting himself to toxic motherly love. I’d say they’re a lot alike though; both are enigmatic, hard-headed, stubborn, and loved everyone in their lives in the only way they knew how.
Sometimes I hear my dad crying. I hear wails that mirror his in the distance—I doubt he knows I’m listening. The sound keeps ringing in my ear, ever since that day in the hospital. It was like revisiting the house of horrors, shoes clacking on the linoleum floor over the groans of patients swallowing at every breath they could grasp. I held it together, for the sake of my father, who was beyond inconsolable. Later that night I let it out by myself, sitting on the curb of the sidewalk, in a high-strung fetal position. It was New Year’s Eve, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I made a few incomprehensible sounds at the expense of whoever was passing by and let myself wallow.
What can one do when the people they love are powerless, and no longer the stoic individuals they once were? It truly is the worst feeling, watching someone you have known since you were brought into this world, die slowly. The shallow IV tubes tore apart any remnants of her warmth. Her feet—stone-cold, a fragile chest heaved weakly, far from representative of the strong woman she was. Beautiful eyes that were closed, and remained closed, from when we left the hospital room until her death. I never saw her eyes or heard her voice, ever again.
There are upsides though. I never knew the warmth of having someone looking down on me, until now. It’s poetically beautiful—I am graced by the wholeness of photographs and, voice recordings that manifest themselves into the sky, truly becoming a slideshow, an array of love in nature alone. Nature holds the capability, of encompassing someone’s soul and transferring it to everyday life. I see it when I pass the Verrazano Bridge on the expressway, when I make eye contact with the pigeons fluttering under the sun, and in a jet stream; dispersing a string of clouds that stretches into the zones of infinite places.
On my nightly strolls—I pause at least once. Glancing upwards, I take a moment of silence with the stars, to pray silently and solemnly—I know she’s listening.
By: Isabella Lopez
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Yasmeen Collins for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/