Growing up, there was already a vast volume of questions thrown at me by either curiosity of others or mine. Questions including: Which the ultimate swear words were, how adults could babble and manage the mechanical process of driving a car at the same time, what multiplication tables were for, how much chocolate was too much chocolate; the list was indefinite but definitely long. As I grew older, the harder the questions start to get. Questions such as "When is it appropriate to talk about your Grandma’s death?” followed by, “How do you cope up with her death?”
My whole world was shattered by one Friday evening call. Numb, if I were to describe my state from that moment. It was that kind of moment where I couldn't feel my knees, I couldn't feel myself. I couldn't hear anything else apart from the words "She's gone." that wouldn't stop repeating in my head.
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I witnessed how everyone from my family unfolded their way of accepting. I watched my mother cry to herself at night just because she hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to her. I watched my uncle sit in silence the whole day, wishing nothing but for his own mother to come back. I watched our family dinner with muteness, hearing nothing but forks clicking and spoons colliding against the tingling gloomy plates, along with gloomy expressions present in everyone's faces. I watched my aunt smiling from cheek to cheek, cracking at her own joke for the sake of breaking the ice. For the sake of accepting, moving on and living. I have written about loss and grief a lot over the past few years, it’s one of my ways to “cope” with some things I never felt prepared to handle. Coping is a strange concept. I believe you never really get over it. Rather, you live with it, as best you can. I was unprepared for the sleepless nights and the feeling of wanting to walk around in a protective bubble. I yearned for people to know, so it would excuse my quietness at