The Living condition

7

Your head is fuzzy from the pressure. The pain throbs but no matter how much you wipe it away, your face was still too wet. You'd known she was getting older, with rickety bones and frail hands that couldn't pick you up anymore. Hands that used to hold your face and tell you how happy she was to have you in her life.

You're young, and you think you shouldn't have to be staring at a box containing the frail body of someone you'd loved. She was old and frail but she had loved you the moment your parents had you.

Dressed in black, you find that you don't like the color anymore. It means something sad. It means something terrible. You're young and shouldn't have to experience this. You don't even know what it means. You shouldn't have to know what it means.

You wipe at your face again, and gently, your mother tells you to stop. You were a reflection of your parents,and it would not reflect well for you to wipe snot all over your neat clothes.

Your father does not cry for the loss of his own mother. You don't understand it, how could you? How could he?

Your father does not cry for the loss of who breathed life into him. He stares at the shut brown box with knitted brows. He is distant, in another place from you. You don't know why. You shouldn't have to know.

Your mother sits neat, her head down in respect, unable to face the smiling picture of your grandmother that stands beside the closed box, decorated in flowers. You wail when you look at the picture, mind enraptured by the good she brought. The warmth of love, different from the distance. You wail at the loss, burying your head in your hands.

Your father snaps at you in a whisper quiet voice,grasping your forearm in a vice. You must be quiet, for that is what is respectful. You were a reflection. You should be more like your father. Your father is strong, he does not shed a tear, he does not wail like an immature baby, he does not cry for the loss of life, he does not whine and complain and mourn like a fool.

You should be more like your father.

Your mother tips her head, leaned towards you as she told you that your father did not mean it. He is grieving. Everyone grieves in their own way. You don't understand the word.

—

You're distant like your father when you see your friend next. She's heard the news from her own father,but she says nothing to you. You know that she knows. She's too young to grasp what it meant, just as you.all she knows is that your eyes were red and puffy days later, and you sat atop her bed,curled into your side with a small expression. You feel embarrassed for crying, as you were made to feel at the funeral.

The white person-thing stands in the corner of the room. Since your father's friend gifted it to her father, the thing has been stuck to her side–and by extension, yours. You can't feel the amazement you did when it first spoke to the two of you. You don't look at it. You don't want to see something that isn't even human looking at you with pity. You don't need it. You needed to grow up and stop seeking the warmth. You should be more like your father. Distant and used to the cold. Hardworking and determined. Used to the loss of warmth. Enduring. Lasting.

Your friend sets her hand on your shoulder, asking a question you don't recall hearing, saying something that's just too fuzzy to hear.

Your head hurts all over again as you wailed.

Your friend sits beside you, hands folded in her lap and hesitant. For she does not know what this is. She should not have to. You should not have to.