Confused as to whether it was Iceland’s unpredictable weather, or if it was my sweat, a tear weaved around the crevices of my face. My legs felt as if I needed weights to ground them back to earth. The gravel slipped from under my feet as the incline heightened. Long pieces of grass would brush my legs as I lost balance from the trail. I no longer walked with the confidence I had when I first started, but rather each foot crossed over the path of the other. Each breath grew heavier with every step. Unaware of where the path would take us, my sister, Lexie, and I knew the only direction we could go was up, in the direction of the beating sun whose rays seemed as if they were a spotlight to my every move. Like the trail, Lexie’s and I relationship on this trip to Iceland was rocky. It was a year directly after my grandfather’s death, and our emotions were prevalent. Lexie had years of experience traveling as she was nine years older than me. She is the type of traveler who would rather listen to the sound of her own thoughts than of my asthmatic breathing. I opened my mouth and let out a sound, almost a syllable, and as I was about to say something, she made a snarky comment while trying to remain civil for the sake of the trip, “Don’t you ever shut up, can we just enjoy the hike without the commentary?”. Unfazed by the comment, because it became too familiar, I continued to focus on feeling myself breathe at each step I lunged at.
Lexie and I’s energy rarely coexisted throughout the trip as she’s used to being an independent traveler. Either I was too annoying or she was, but rarely together. Dreaming of my inhaler, which I conveniently left at the hostel, Lexie began to vocalize her annoyance at my lack of energy, “I organized this whole trip and you don’t even seem to appreciate it”. Surprised by this unanticipated comment, my eyelids weighed down my eyes. This had not been my intention. This was my last trip before college. To me, it symbolized more than a trip to Iceland. It was the trip my sister and I had dreamt about for four years. It was the last time where I would be carefree of the world around me before I would be burdened with the responsibilities of adulthood. I came to a realization that both of us are naturally sensitive beings and our emotions had already been raised with the thought of my grandfather. Neither of us have experienced immediate family death before my grandfather. Our experience was different from most. Lexie was more natural at comforting others than I was, something I’ve always admired about her. Yet, neither of us have talked about it much ourselves. I’ve kept my thoughts to my journal. Watching cancer eat away at the life of someone you love was unbearable and how can that be put into words. I always fear that bringing up the topic would be more unbearable and stir the emotions we all wanted to keep locked away.
In his last days, a year ago from the hike, he became so reliant on others for simple tasks such as speaking. His ghostly figure became unrecognizable. I think his spirit died at the knowledge of his terminal cancer, months prior to his death. Despite his dire fate, he did not make it obvious that he was unfinished with life. I mean, after all, the thought of life after death is like a black hole; full of the unknown. It is a hard topic to grasp. In hopes of a life after death, I found myself frequently lost in a day dream at the thought, trying to grasp the concept. Despite our closeness, I felt that I had no right to be sad about his death. It was my mom’s dad not mine, she had a reason to be sad. Seeing others cry is what broke me most. “He would have loved this.”
“I miss him.” Lexie replied.
Worried about the delayed response, I was disgusted by my own comment as it was too sappy for my typical humor, but it was the truth. Lexie and I have spent a week straight together and our tolerance for another was growing slim, yet, we laughed together. We laughed at my grandfather’s obscure habits, such as being an avid yardsaler who loved a bargain, even if he already had them in quadruplicate or more. It was at this moment where I no longer feared death but also allowed myself the right to grieve naturally. Lexie and I laughed more than we cried at the thought of him. Although quarantine was dreaded, his death was inevitable and this time away from the chaos in the world, allowed me to spend more time with him and be there for him in his final memories. We grew grateful of the years we were fortunate to have with my grandfather, his odd habits included.
Lexie leaped at the sound of the trickling water that echoed in the distance. She was crouched, holding her water bottle as the pure Iceland water flowed straight into it. Holding the water bottle up, it could be used as a telescope to reflect a spitting image of the landscape behind it. Thoroughly fascinated by the water, we continued with our hike. Every thirty feet we were at a crossroad, any new direction would have created a different story. Lexie and I were playing tug of war as to what path we would take. One was welcoming us through an arch where leaves created shade on the path, the other appeared to be more touristy. Lexie was adamant about avoiding this title as she felt like an expert, having been to Iceland several times. So, we chose to follow the shaded path that would lead to an edge where the water echo became louder. It was as if I walked into a painting. It was an unknown world for me. No factory fog clogging the view. No cars honking in a hurry. Life was slower here, it was enjoyable. It was peaceful. A waterfall covering the foreground and what appeared to be the rest of Iceland in the distance. Between the animated colors and sound of water crashing, crowding my thoughts from reality, I unexpectedly felt the presence of my grandfather.
Reminiscing, Lexie and I were actually having a meaningful conversation that coexisted over the sound of water plummeting onto the rocks below. Like most siblings, our relationship was either laughter or annoyance from any sound that the other was only considering saying. Reminiscing is a sort of playback of a movie in your own life. Lexie and I alternated stories that were still alive in our hearts.
I thought of the day in detail. August 15th, I woke up and the house felt the kind warmth it had as if mom and dad started the day early. The smell of vanilla soy candles overwhelmed my senses, waking me. My kitchen had the shine it does when I would come home from school and the sun reflected perfectly into the kitchen, off the table onto the wall. The sound of feet against the hard wood that I had not recognized as those of my family, each with a distinct rhythm, it was the feet of strangers cluttering the house. I was offered a black raspberry milkshake for breakfast, everyone’s dream. My grandfather was sitting in the living room in his chair, the brown one that had a perfect view of the tv and reclined to a restful position. He sat and stared at the nothingness in front of him. People were chattering in the background, but his soul seemed to have been raised above it all. I sat beside him, holding his hand, watching Glee, a show my grandfather did not care for but rather just used as an excuse to spend time with us grandkids. Despite our hands being clammy, often an intolerable feeling, he clenched mine harder. “It’s as if he knew that day was his last”, something I never admitted out loud to Lexie who was still fascinated by crystal clear water, fresh from the stream. That next morning, a Sunday morning, the rest of his body followed his already raised soul up to heaven, his new home.
Lexie and I laughed as we remembered the stories that flooded back, almost at the same pace as the waterfall below us. We joked, “It’s just like him to turn the attention back on himself.” Unsure of what emotion I was feeling more, I think I was happy. We continued on our hike, admiring foreign flowers that sprouted from the ground, like a scene casted by “The Sound of Music”. Tempted to pick these flowers that stared back at me to keep as a souvenir, I was reminded of early summer in the peak of quarantine, before my grandfather’s cancer was acknowledged. While everyone else was tucked away in their rooms, I knew I could always find my grandfather outside, on the half power washed deck that was destined to give you splinters, watering his flowers whether they were real or fake. He always claimed “they need nourishment the way people do”. With that in mind, I left the flowers, in their beauty, surrounded by their flower friends and for others to admire.
Having lost track of time between the unruly hike and having been battling with jet lag, the sun was finally setting after 16 exhausting hours. The hike down was easier on my lungs, but harder on the knees. For the most part, I let gravity carry me back. Watching the rocks tremble as I dragged my feet down the hill, I was ignoring the scenery around me. This trail contained more trees than I have seen throughout the rest of Iceland. Hidden behind the rare trees, I looked up briefly and became entranced about the view I had been oblivious towards. Lexie called out to me, as I was in my own world several feet behind her. “It looks like the Paramount Mountain ”. I jokingly looked around for the cameras as if I was the star of a movie. Every direction you looked here, was a new landscape or place to be in awe at. The sun slowly swept the mountain until the mountain was no longer in its spotlight. Like trees, sunsets were rare in this rainy country. The unexpected sun appeared just so it could set, and life was blissful. I let out a sigh as things were falling into place. My breath was light, a foreign concept to a day where my asthma was acting up. The pure Iceland air was crisp and the breeze was blowing lightly in my hair but not in the obnoxious, in my face, way. His beauty was in the way the sky was a swatch of vivid colors, like the design of the paintings he produced. There was no doubt that my grampy was there with us, where he always said he’d be.