For months, I hoped that I would be able to “conclude” the grieving for my grandmother somehow. On the same day she passed away, my then landlord told me that I would have three months to move out; so I postponed my real grief – thinking that I would be able to grieve once I had moved into my new place.
Unfortunately, the place turned out to be an utter mess – never could I imagine my new landlord being so insane that he would break in several times and repeatedly violate my personal space. Yet, there was no time to think on this either, or to wonder what I wanted to do about it; I left to stay elsewhere for top surgery.
First day I was back here, I found a new place. I´m moving there within a week, and – finally – the move seems to indicate new stability, some sort of calm after the storm. Ideally, this time moving offered a chance to conclude a period of grievance in reverence and silence. This is what I would have wanted, for her.
And yet, the period of grievance I have been through, is already over. Or maybe it never really happened. Between the instances of crazy and chaotic, there were glimpses of pain, but never the time; whenever I longed to pour my heart out, my mind was forced to deal with the ugly aspects of life.
And so here I am, and nothing is concluded; I have not accepted her death, but five months have passed in an instant – and I have no option but to resign: to accept that this is how she would have liked to pass: unnoticed, and unaccompanied by intense and bombastic emotionality.
After all, that it what it said on her farewell card: not to grieve but to look forward, to notice the coming spring in all its beauty – a demand too detached to understand; a demand wished upon by a mind at peace; a mind who understood better than any of us the transience of one lifetime.