Apparently, the world keeps spinning. It’s always spinning, at least to everyone else, but not to me. Not my world. I’m stuck standing here, watching as everything around me slows down. People talk to me, but I can’t hear them because all I hear is this silence—a heavy emptiness that weighs me down and keeps me from moving. They all say the same things: a couple of “it takes time, have patience” and many “I’m sorry for your loss,” but I don’t get it. Why would I want an apology? Why would I want comfort? Why would I want space? I don’t want any of it; I just want her. Only she can give me any sort of peace, nobody can give me what she can—sorry, what she could. I keep forgetting to use past tense. How do I get used to it? How am I supposed to talk about her in the past when she’s supposed to be here, with me?
There is a special kind of love for a grandmother, one that can be compared to no other. She isn’t just a grandmother; she’s your second mother. The kind of person who loves you more than air itself. The person who sees every part of you, accepting both the good and the bad. My grandmother—my Nano—was the only person who loved me loudly. In every word, every action, I knew she loved me. She never had to say it, but she did anyways. Every single conversation ended in an “I love you, Aisha” and a kiss. To her, I was never the last thought. With her, I never needed to beg to be heard. Never the son, always the daughter. She knew every little thing about me. She knew my favourite foods, my biggest fears, my favourite colour, my dreams, and even my biggest secrets. She would always put me above my sisters, not because she loved me more but because she knew how much it would mean to me. I rarely visited my Nano, always so close but so far. I spoke to her mostly in Urdu because my Punjabi was so broken, but she never complained. She never insisted that I talk to her, she let me come to her instead, grateful for every visit despite how few there were. She would cry with me at the airport, never wanting to let go, and it’s those memories that hurt the most. I should have fought harder, should have gone to see her anyways, consequences be damned. I could say I have at least one picture with her, but I’d be lying. I never got the chance to. I was never allowed to because of others who claim to love me, and knowing that I missed out on photographing my favourite person hurts more than I thought.
When I was 10 years old, I visited my Nano for a few days. I was eating gulab jamun, my favourite mithai that she always made sure to bring for me,with my Nano when I told her I wanted to stay longer. That was the first and only time I ever saw her beautiful smile be so full of sadness. Instead of reassuring me that we would meet again, she told me she was sorry. I never understood why she apologized, but I get it now. I never knew people could be so cruel, so selfish and unremorseful, but now I do. She carried a burden that was never hers, a deep regret that ate away at her for years. I know now, I know she wished she could change it all that day so her daughter and grand-daughters wouldn’t know the life they do now. I wish I could tell her now, tell her that I wouldn’t have changed a thing because all these hardships only brought me closer to her and that is a blessing I greatly cherish. I wish I could have understood sooner, maybe I could have saved her from all that regret. I don’t regret it Nano—I would do it all over again for you.
I have never experienced grief before. I have no idea how to navigate these feelings, this build-up of anger and sadness. I never thought I would have to because you were supposed to be here Nano. I wish it were as easy as asking Siri for an easy tutorial. You promised me, you said you would watch me grow up, but Nano I’m not grown yet—I still need you. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to. You were supposed to be here; how can I just move on from that? You were the only person who saw me, who heard me, who loved me so freely. You let me be loud, never shushing me or scolding me for “unladylike” behaviour. You taught me to embrace the parts of me that everyone else tried to get rid of. I still have the weekly reminder to call you on my phone, and I can’t bring myself to delete it. It’s only been a few weeks since your passing, but everything is still so fresh. I spend too much time staring at your contact on my phone, staring through tear-filled eyes at the dozens of missed calls that you’ll never return. All I want is one more minute. One more chance to say I love you.
You visit my dreams. I see you every night, but it’s not the same. I want to lay in your arms again, fall asleep to your heartbeat. I want to spend hours watching you cook, being your taste tester. I want to try on your jewellery with you again, laugh at the stories of my mother as a child with you.
We’re supposed to be sneaking around the kitchen late at night, gathering snacks for our movie while everyone else sleeps. I still wear your necklace, the one you gave my Mama when she came to Canada. I’ve worn it every day since you both gave it to me. You could have chosen either one of my sisters, but you both chose me and now I’m left to forever wonder why. Now whenever my Mama sees me, she cries. Why does she cry Nano? Is it because of the necklace? Or is it because I have your smile? Everyone says I have your bubbly personality, that I love people so much like you do, but that only hurts more because I can’t stand the tears welling in my Mama’s eyes whenever she looks at me. How do I help her through this? I don’t want to leave her alone, but I’m scared she’ll never stop seeing you in me and forever be sad. Her grief only makes my own grow because who do I ask for help when the one person with all the answers is no longer here?
My mother pretends to be okay. I know she pretends because I do the same. I can see the grief clouding her, but she keeps telling me she’s okay. I wish I could take away her pain, help her through it, but silence is all I can give her. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to say. So many people have visited, providing their comfort and support, but they all say the same things. The most common sentence I’ve heard lately is “we all die one day” which is a line that will never sit right with me. I know everyone dies, even plants and animals don’t live forever, but death shouldn’t be so easily brushed off. Obviously, every human will die one day, what point is there in saying it to a grieving soul? What other response will it invoke aside from “yeah, I know?” I hate that line because it holds no meaning other than a reminder that our time on this planet is limited. A reminder that life is short and can end at any time isn’t going to heal grief. I know it’s an important reminder, but sometimes all we need is silence. There is nothing I can say that will make my mother feel better right now.
The only peace I can give her is my presence, but I would rather be silent than tell her things she doesn’t want to hear.
I feel that oftentimes, as a society, we believe that giving advice or reminders is the solution to every inner turmoil, but that is not always true. There is peace in knowing you have the support without having to hear it. Time heals and strengthens our patience, but it is no easy journey. Everything falls apart when one bad thing happens, a chain of unfortunate events. I wish I could say that won’t always be the case, but I fear it is very much true. I can’t say much about healing from grief, but I do know that I can’t let it consume me. I don’t want advice or reminders, but knowing I have people who understand me and are here for me is healing me more than I thought. I never liked being quiet, it always felt wrong and awkward, but now I see the value of silence. Navigating life right now for me feels impossible, and I know eventually I’ll be okay, but a part of me will always ache for herjust like it will for my mother. I know she’ll be okay one day, so until then, we’ll both have to embrace the emptiness. Even in death, mygrandmother makes me feel so loved. I miss my Nano, I miss her more than I can ever describe, but I’ll always welcome the bittersweet memories because even though they hurt, they are my biggest gifts.