Grandma's Funeral

This was an assessment for my english class. We wrote a journal entry about an important period of time from our lives. I chose to write my grandma's funeral and how I felt throughout the process.

I've always wondered what happens after you die. Many religions and even scientists have theorised what happens once you pass. Since childhood, I've always believed that simply nothing occurs. Once you take your last breath and close your eyes, everything just fades to black.

My grandma passed a little while ago due to lung cancer. It's a true shame how many lives cancer has taken, and how we have all known someone who has been affected by this deadly disease. When I was told the news, I wasn't sure how to react. Was I supposed to be sad? Upset? Angry?? Everyone around me was grieving, while I wasn't even sure how I was feeling.

It was the first day of the mourning period; we still had six more days and a life filled with grief and unimaginable pain, for my family members at least. I felt like a terrible, cruel person for not sharing in their grief. I began to feel even worse as the days went on, as no matter how hard I tried I could not shed a single tear. 

I remember like it was yesterday, kneeling on that bright orange, sedge mat, the one that would leave imprints on my knees and cause them to turn red. I felt as though the pain in my knees would somehow compensate for the pain I was supposed to feel inside. So as everyone began to sit down once their knees started to ache, I endured the pain and kneeled for as long as I could. Hoping I could show my grandmother from beyond the grave, that I truly did love her, even if no tears came out. 

The monk began to read out sermons and sutras in Vietnamese, I didn't understand a single thing. It reminded me of my relationship with my grandmother, I felt as though I should've been closer to her, I should've known more about her, heck, I should've been able to speak with her; but due to my unwillingness to learn Vietnamese, I never really had a full conversation with her. The only words we ever exchanged were hello. It was the only word I could muster. The cold, selfish, lone word; which made up the facade that hid my inner turmoil and my unwillingness to learn her mother tongue. Could things have gone differently?

Placing the incense on the last day made me contemplate everything. Lighting the fire symbolises birth, a new life, and once it burns out, it marks the end of that life. Everyone that once knew them is left behind, suffering, while the deceased enter into the unknown. Like a cryptic treasure map written with invisible ink, the X only revealed to us when it is our turn to cross over.

Now, I think about my grandmother everyday. Every time I look into the mirror I see her in myself, her bouncy curls and her lustrous hair; an image from a distant memory of her in my mind, made tangible in my reflection. The maelstrom of emotion that I felt back then, now brought to order, clarified by this feeling of longing. To have known her, to have understood her. Ever since that day, I've been lighting incense for her out of tradition, but tonight, I light incense for her, not because my religion tells me to, but because I truly do love her. 

Author's Note

Please give me feedback, I know I have lots of room for improvement so please let me know! 😁

Reviews

[Rachid Amrani]

Thank you for sharing the story of your grandmother and I extend my deepest sympathy to you and your family. Your writing really conveys the trauma and grief that arises from a losing a loved one. As I read your piece, I could feel in your powerful words the extent of guilt you felt because you didn't speak your grandmother's language. I've gone through similar experiences upon losing my parents and I felt guilty too because I always felt I should have done more for them. However, there is only so much a person can do and I am sure your grandmother would've been proud of you to share her story on this platform.
On another note, I can see your writing identifying with the autobiography genre. For instance, you can write more inspirational pieces like this one and compile it in one work. If, on the other hand, you want to write stories that can be classified as fiction then you might want to start reading a little bit about the norms of fiction writing since each genre has its own norms. For example, a short story has to have characters and these characters have to be engaged in actions which in turn would lead to conflicts and these conflicts will show through dialogues. Overall it was a gripping piece of writing.