The first time I went to a cemetery was in 2013 when my grandmother passed away.
I wrote about it.
It was the first time I'd experienced loss & extreme grief. I think it affected my performance at school, but I refuse to blame her for my grades. That was my own doing.
We go to the cemetery every year now. Now this is a tradition of my family. Even when I'm not home I make it to a cemetery to pray for her soul and the souls of the people buried there.
My friends think it's rather morbid to go to a cemetery. It was beautiful though; Autumn hadn't fully rid the trees of their leaves. Our boots made a delicious crunching noise on the leaves as we walked along the path. The sun streamed in through the tall trees. There was a slight breeze. Cyclists rode by, staring curiously at us. We prayed the rosary (her favourite prayer) and sang in Latin (Salve Regina).
It was - save for the tombstones - rather picturesque.
Back in 2013, I didn't think I'd be able to take that amount of sadness. I was cutting again. I was crying everywhere. I couldn't get through the days very well. I wondered how I'd be able keep that up long term.
Now, in 2016, I try to think about what her voice sounds like. What it felt like when she was near me. What her perfume smelt like. It still pains me to think about her in the past tense. And everytime I see her name on that headstone, my throat closes slightly and I feel this wave of grief fall over me again.
I don't think you ever fully get over grief. I think you just make space for it in your life.
I tell her stories now. I help make her food. We wear her jewellery.
We go on memories now.
