she falls apart

When I was eight, my grandfather passed away. He had fallen on the slippery bathroom floor and was taken immediately to the hospital. My cousins and I were blissfully unaware of the seriousness of his condition because day after day, our parents assured us that he was fine.

It wasn’t until the adults decided to move my grandfather home from the hospital did I see how truly close to death he was. His skin was stretched taut, a fine white-ash with tiny wisps of wrinkles. Like thin calligraphy strokes, his eyes squeezed shut, spelling the pain of his weakened body. Even after seeing the state that he was in, I did not believe that he was going to die. I was eight, young and invincible. The world was just and fair, and I knew that my grandfather was never going to die.

His final words to me were, “Be good. Listen to your mother.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left his bedroom. I still believed that my grandfather was going to live.

His death brushed past me like the clothes on my skin; I could not grasp the concept of “gone.”

My grandfather’s funeral was a grand weeklong event. The adults moved my cousins and I into my grandparents’ house for the funeral. In the daytime, my cousins and I put on solemn faces to greet mourners who had come to honor my grandfather. But at night, it was a big slumber party. We played silly games and stayed up late, making up ghost stories but stopping before they got too scary. We dared not evoke the memory of our grandfather for fear that his ghost would come visiting. Somehow, I had convinced myself to fast forward the memory of my grandfather from alive to untouchable ghost. There was no time for me to mourn because I was having too much fun with my cousins.

On the seventh and final day of the funeral, my family prepared my grandfather for cremation. They stuffed fancy clothing and precious family artifacts on the sides of his coffin. I suppose it was necessary for his journey, but I thought my grandfather looked uncomfortable.

I peered into his coffin, half-expecting my grandfather to open his eyes and say, “It’s okay, everyone!” But he didn’t, and all I could think was, “Last chance, Grandpa. Come on.”

I felt like I was watching a pen fall, slow motion, to the ground. And when it hit the cold cement, there was a loud clang, a jolt of reality: My grandfather was dead. Once the tears came, I could not stop them. Sobbing and gulping for air like an idiot, I clung to the side of the coffin, regretting every ghost story ever told and every shove-aside I gave to my memories of him.

My mother pulled me close to her and hugged me tight. It looked like she was comforting me, but she was really trying to muffle my wailing. Finally, she pulled me into the kitchen, gave me a glass of water, and left me.

My first encounter with death and it was dealt with a glass of water. I drank the water slowly, unhurried and calm. Looking within myself, I made sure not to rush past the important details of my grandfather’s life. Instead, I rested my head into my open palms and cried, mourning for the loss of my beloved grandfather.

Written by Dene

She had fallen hard for him – hopelessly and helplessly in love. Yet she never said a word. She knows that it will never be; she had known the day she liked him, the day he wrote about love and shared it to her. Reading what he wrote struck her hard in her beating heart. This rush of emotions surprised her; she did not recognize it, refused to recognize it.

They laughed, hugged, flirted – they even came close to kissing. But she always held herself back. She was afraid of getting too close, too emotionally attached. After all, she was waiting for him to turn her away, to realize that she was not good enough for him. There were nights when she would lay in bed thinking, I wonder if he’d tell me tomorrow. She hoped that day would never come.

Hope. No matter how despairing a situation becomes, there would always be a glimmer of hope floating around, enough to fuel dreams and make them soar. Or crush them. She clung on to this ambiguous life saver, knowing in her heart that she might get hurt. But to her, he was worth it.

I guess I should tell you about him. He had the gift to weave words into beauty, writing stories that brought tears to her eyes. She was deeply enamored by his honesty. He would write about all his problems, fears, and flaws. Then he would show it to the world. She thought that to be extremely brave; she would never have the courage to be so shamelessly open. Extremely passionate about God, he would raise his arms to the sky, proclaiming His greatness, and then proceed with life as if that was the most ordinary thing anyone could ever do. He was a truly devout Christian. Sometimes it annoyed her that she did not have the same beliefs as he did, that she could not understand his love for something so completely foreign to her. But perhaps it was this passion she fell for as it embodies everything he is.

And her. She was a girl who would love to believe in everything, but also maintain just enough cynicism to be able to live in reality. She was always seen with a smile on her face, cheery and perky. He called her a cheerleader. She had so much energy, jumping, dancing, singing – trying her very best to make him smile. Because seeing him happy was her high. Rarely would she expose her vulnerable side to the world; rarely would she cry because she believed it represented weakness and frailty. She kept her fears and worries inside of her, locked up until the key could be given to the right person. And she wished dearly that she could have handed him the key.

But he loved God, and she did not. She knew that no matter how strongly he felt for her, it would never ever surpass his love for God. They could never be. Still, she held on tightly to that shred of hope. Would it be her savior or her destroyer? She began to fear rejection. And it came. Boy, did it come.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” she said, bracing herself for it.

“Whatever we have right now, this relationship, thing, whatever it is–I need it to stop right now. I cannot be more than friends with you, even though I dearly want to. I have been on the phone for a long time today talking to all my Christian friends. And I’ve been talking to God.”

She swallowed her tears. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Right now, at this moment in my life, I cannot be in a relationship with anyone but God. He is my priority. I need to give myself – wholly and entirely – to him. I have been too busy dancing, too busy falling in love with you, to see that God should be who I am serving. And I know this is going to sound cliche, but I just want to be friends with you. It’s not that I no longer care for you; I still absolutely do. But right now, God has to be my priority.”

She smiled and said, “I understand.” He seemed relieved by her reaction. I suppose he had expected tears, anger, disappointment from her. I suppose he was glad that he did not have to deal with her despair. He now lives for God, unburdened by any emotional baggage. Thank God she understands.

And she really did. After all she saw it coming. She had put herself in a situation where she could have never won; she knew that from the very beginning. Yet she had allowed herself to invest her feelings, allowed their gazes to linger and their touches to mean more. She had allowed herself to fall in love. And now, she walked away from him, her face carrying a touch of a smile. She held her head high and looked the world in the face. She did not cry.

That night, she laid in bed. His words ran through her head. She decided to take a shower. Standing naked, she felt the hot water trickle down her face.

Don’t cry. Not over a boy.

A boy? He wasn’t just a boy. He was the boy she had fallen in love with.

As her body heaved with each shuddering sob, it seemed as though she would never stop. Tears coursed slowly down her cheeks, immediately washed away by the shower. She mourned for the loss of a beautiful future.

And I mourned for her loss.

Written by Dene

Alex was living in a pretend world. Aged eight, with dark hair and a heart-shaped face, she wasn’t pretty, nor was she hideous. To her classmates, she was the cheery, over-active girl who was cool with everything. She was liked by her peers and her teachers. No one bothered to look past her wide smile; no one saw the hell she was going through.

At home, Alex got into regular fights with her mother. Their tantrums were heard clearly by their neighbors; Alex’s cries when beaten by her mother were never mentioned. The next day, she would be greeted with sympathetic smiles. She was just a little girl, the neighbors thought. Yet they never said a word. Alex just smiled brightly and greeted them. Such a young girl.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened. Slowly, Alex began to hate her mother. She hated her for giving her the ugly welts on her arm that must be hidden. She hated her for the slaps, the hateful words that could never be taken back. At night, her screams of frustration and anger would be muffled by her pillow.

And then she snapped. Alex packed her bags. She stuffed her favorite outfits into her Barbie bag pack. She remembered to take her money from her piggy bank (all $5.43) and make extra sandwiches for the journey. She didn’t know where she was going, just as long as it was away. She stepped out of house, and started walking. Alex walked til her legs were sore, and she rested on a bench. She took a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chewed on it thoughtfully. She felt so tired. All she wanted was a soft bed and a stuffed animal to hug.

“I don’t want to leave my mommy,” she said out loud. So she started back, crying all the way home. She knew that hell would be awaiting her when she returned; she knew that people were going to be worried. When her mother saw her, she gave a cry of anger and frustration. Alex recognized it. She had often done the same.

All done in love. Alex may hate her mother. But without hate, love would be worthless. And love within hate is the most challenged, most daunted, and most feared. But Alex and her mother were strong. They listened more, shared more, and lived. There are still problems within their relationship; there are still times when “I hate you” is thrown angrily across the room to each other. But Alex would never walk away from her mother. She hates her too much.

Written by Dene

Victoria’s brother, Ken, was driving me home one summer night. His girlfriend, May, was sitting in the passenger seat, while Victoria and I were in the back. We were having a little trouble getting to my house because I had just recently moved and was not exactly sure about directions. All I knew was that I lived off of Rainbow Drive, in some townhouse place. Since that wasn’t exactly helpful, we got lost pretty soon.

After fifteen minutes of aimless driving, Ken started going uphill towards the richer areas. “I definitely don’t live around here,” I said. He just shrugged and continued driving. We looked, with mouths open in awe, at the houses that seemed to glare threateningly at us. Our only source of light came from the car’s headlights as there were no street lights up in the hills. Darting shadows and shifting winds were starting to make me nervous. But Ken continued driving uphill.

When we finally reached the top, he turned the car around. I gasped, for I had received the most delightful gift. There, in front of us, was the most breathtaking view. Golden lights winked brightly, dotting the entire town. They flirted with their brilliance and luster, coaxing even the most ill-tempered person to feel joy. Woven between these lights were shapes of houses and buildings. They changed and moved, fitting together despite of their differences. Looking up, I could see the horizon, an infinite line blurring to become one with the sky. The sky stretched endlessly. Its color was a magnificent fusion of pinkish-purple, and Midas-gold. To capture that view would be impossible, but that moment left a trace of hope.

Each time we are overwhelmed with problems, we feel that there is no meaning in our lives. Blaming ourselves seems to be a natural outlet for our frustrations. We get so caught up in the misery, the self-pity, and the I’m-in-hell feeling, that we forget about the good things. It’s no secret that we live in a world of depravity and hate. But pay attention to the little details, and it really isn’t quite as hopeless. The blooming daisy, the sincere smile, the crying new-born; beauty is right in front of us. It isn’t until we take a step out of our world that we are able to see the bigger picture. And it is beautiful.

That’s when I knew for sure. On that hot muggy summer night, as I gazed in wonder, my mind was clear of all doubts. We are all okay.

If it was at a different time and a different situation, I would never had danced with him.

And then I remembered how he was such a sweetheart to me. One day during class, I said that I thought some girl in our class was beautiful. He looked at her, then looked at me, and cocked his head to the side. And he said, “Well, I don’t know. Between you and her, I think you’re beautiful.”

I was so surprised. At first I thought he was just joking around, but he had said it with a totally straight face, and he actually looked sincere. I couldn’t help it; I put my hand to his cheek and said, “You’re such a sweetie to me.” We smiled and comfortably shifted into a different topic.

I saw him standing by himself at the dance, and a slow song had come up. I’ve always thought he had nice eyes, and that he was pretty cute. Plus, what he said to me was still fresh in my mind. So I went over to him and asked him to dance. I think he was surprised, but he said yes.

It was nice.