In my dream, I see Grumps;

a basin of water, and a drying towel

at the front door

I hear resounding 60’s music,

Feet stamping, and loud guffawing

Coloring the weather, happiness

In my nightmare, I drink from reality’s chalice;

And it’s a confusing mixture of calm and rage

And pain and silence

And faux healing and never stopping tears

And loss, and gripping nearness

In my fantasy;

Grief is a straight line,

It is raining,

and Grumps is still alive

I never know what to do with grief. If the loss is close, pain hovers on the door to my heart, confused, lost on whether to knock or break in. My eyes do not know how to cry, so they stay mostly dry, covering really hard for the pain being held back by the tiniest strand of miracles.

No one believes I am drowning because I lack the ability to make frantic splashes. I think I am broken. No, not like heart-throb-broken. More like, faulty-car broken. As though my anatomy lacks something.

At age six when kids question everything, I did too. I wondered why the sky was blue, why trees would not move and the highlight was my personal project of getting my Grandpa a nickname that sounded cool. Starting with a list that filled two pages of my diary to a shortlist of three names on a yellow sticky note, my infant mind left no stone unturned. “Nana” was too bland, “Grand.P” too gangster, but number three on the list made him smile. Maybe it was the struggle to pronounce the ending ‘s’ because of my little lisp, or maybe he had realized I had run out of names. But whatever the reason was, we settled on number three, and Daddy's father has since been known as “Grumps”.

They say children are drawn to positive souls and colorful energy. Grumps was all but colorful but I was drawn to him all the same. With his trademark black on black shirt tucked into his pants, a moustache I am so sure grew past its natural boundaries, and aloofness that trailed him like a second shadow, he cut quite a scary and unapproachable sight, till he smiled; till he smiled the smile of infant carefreeness that travels from his lips to make a home in his eyes, lighting up his whole being. We had an inside joke, my sister and I. We called it, “the devil's undoing”, his smile.

When his finding out about our little joke revealed he did not fancy being tagged “the devil”, we changed it to “the transcendence” because it took more than the basic for a smile to create such contrast. It did not help that his smiles were only reserved for my sister and I, and the once-a-year coming together of the whole family for thanksgiving dinner. On those evenings, he would smile so wide, his eyes shining so bright, you could tell it was explosive happiness; the kind that brings you near bursting, the kind that follows you to your dreams and wakes you up to a joyful mood.

Grumps was shot. He came to the country for a whole month. Three weeks and five days more than he usually does. In that month, we had  graced tons of events, shared a stage, drove all across town, and gone to the airport together when it was finally time for him to leave. Two weeks after his departure, his death was conveyed over the phone by a stranger who spoke without the tiniest shred of compassion. Losing your favorite person in the world had become an everyday occurrence. This pain felt different; I did not instantly try to make sense of everything, play tough and accept that his time was due. This pain was different; I did not roll my eyes at the prospect of mourners calling at our door, wearing their condolences as puffy eyes, and loud sobs. This pain was different; I did not allow obliviousness to shroud me like a blanket in winter. This pain was different; it did not head straight for my heart.

It tickled only slightly under my feet. But the intensity grew. It poked and prickled, like a sharp object in the hands of a curious child. And then it pierced. My legs gave way, and I could no longer feel my feet, or my ankles, or my toes, or my knees. And then it felt as though everything below my waist had become dead weight.

No one believes I am hurting because I lack the tears to establish my story. For minutes, my family assumed I was only dramatizing loss. And even I wondered if I had so much wished to grieve normally that the accumulation of prayers had been answered all at once. So, my pain was a combination of pent-up agony and sorrow. Now I cannot even tell reality and illusions apart. But I know the damning pain was not being imagined. I know the inability to get on my feet was no dramatization. I pictured loss with bloodied teeth, gnawing at my legs, disabling my knees and my feet, smiling sadistically as I reeled over how badly it hurt.

My mind did the traveling thing. When a single emotion overwhelms me, I drift apart from my body. We split into distinct entities who share an innate connection they cannot undo. The out-of-body experience drinks away the pain. I could move my legs, but my vessel was still stationary. The past month flashed over my eyes like it does with my favorite movie. It was fascinating, It was a sped-up display, and yet at the same time, in slow motion. For I did not miss a single detail, but it appeared to all pass by, a little too quickly.

I loathed death for making me feel so deeply. I deliberated on how smiles turn upside down so quickly. I paused the screenplay and wandered back a few scenes. Grumps’ infectious smile betrayed nothing of today’s agony. I forwarded to the day the call came in; I watched my face twist and wrinkle so fast from when the news hit me, and I sat unfeeling as my body slumped to the floor in this reverie. For two weeks I was immobile. The paralysis felt like a bad joke.

Can anyone really grieve that badly?  I am telling you I could not feel my feet; I am telling you this loss took too much away from me. But the stares of disgust kept coming, and everyone had a remedy. “Keep his food on top of the fridge, hunger would give him back his legs.” “He probably dented his spine when he fell, it has nothing to do with the death, I know a few herbs.”

I am telling you I was in the darkest place ever, and the world colored my affliction, pretense, a pathetic attempt at seeking attention.

No one believes I am bursting because these minimal flames simply do not make the cut. Dreams come true, but aren’t nightmares, dreams too? 

My dreams have a creeping semblance to reality. Characters can be felt, and sometimes the dream goes on way after I have woken up. So, my cognition distorts. I try to put up a fight, I try to wake up or somehow manage to tell hallucinations and reality apart. But when you have fought the same fight since infancy, you either get strong enough to win, or learn to simply give up. The latter clinched on to me.

So when Grumps came visiting thirteen days after his death, I knew better than to freak out. I stared at him long and hard, and mouthed inaudibly, why? Why leave when you know how badly I hate goodbyes? Why? He did not say anything back. He stared at me and gentleness poured from his eyes. He grimaced at the sight of the wheelchair in the corner of my room, and I wondered if he too was judging me. For a full minute, his eyes did not leave mine. Till I started to question if the purpose of his coming was for a staring contest.

His left hand held mine. I reached out to him, but it felt like a piece of wood. No warmth, and certainly no pulse. He gently dragged me out of my bed. My legs followed along, stiff. I was prepared to scream my worry that they would hit the floor and break even more. I hesitated, and he felt the brief pause. But he smiled that toothy smile, “the transcendence.” The one that spoke a hundred words without making a sound; the one that felt like ice on a hot afternoon; the one that shouted a million times over, everything will be alright.

I let go.

That was when I felt it. The tenderness felt like the flame of a very tiny matchstick under my very cold feet. It burned through. It seared my flesh, I could almost smell bacon. I waited for the pain and nothing came. But it burned through my legs, upwards from my toes right to the split between my tummy and my thighs. I could feel my legs. I could walk again. I was free. The world no longer would judge me.

In my joy, I did not see Grumps leave.