Chapter One: A G-Minor Day
Rain trickles down the window pane in my attic - a constant stream of tiny bell-like modulations throwing themselves against the dusty glass. The wind howls outside, making the window rattle furiously. Things fly about the yard and the silver pinwheel stuck in the front lawn spins around uncontrollably--perpetual motion.
The day is a minor day. Each day reminds me of a different musical key, and today it is a g-minor day. My least favorite day of all. The kind where it's raining, but only trickling. And the wind is so fierce and loud, that Victor and I have to shout to hear each other.
It has been two weeks since my Granny Helen died. The whole thing has made my life come to a stand-still. So much grieving has been going on in my family these past weeks, and I still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that she's never coming back. The thing about Granny Helen was that she never thought of herself. She was the kindest, most caring person I have ever known and life without her friendly personality is like no life at all in our family.
At family gatherings, Granny Helen was always the one starting up the conversation, suggesting the games, giving presents, and laughing all the time. Everyone looked up to her to lead our events and she never failed them. Without her, it's like all of the fun, excitment, and pleasure has been drained out of our family with one big swoosh.
My brother, Victor, and I are going though her attic today, but it isn't helping me find the peace that I need. In fact, it's doing quite the opposite. Every few minutes, fresh tears glisten on my cheeks and my nose is dry as bone from wiping it on my sleeve so many times. Victor's no better. Between the two of us, I've always been stronger (even though, I'm the girl and he's the guy). His sentimental character is probably from Granny Helen herself.
Hundreds of boxes are scattered around the dust-filled room, and even after several hours, Vic and I have barely scratched the surface of how many there are. That's the other thing about Granny Helen, she wouldn't part with anything. She kept every letter she ever recieved, and made sure that Eric, her husband, didn't thrown anything that she considered useful away. My granny couldn't stand for something to go to waste, and she made weekly trips to Goodwill with truck-loads of clothing and toys. Even so, she still had a landfill for an attic.
Since Grandpa Eric died long before Granny Helen (leaving the three-story house for us), my parents thought that going through Granny Helen's old stuff would help my brother and I get over our grief, but every time we see something that belonged to her that reminds us of a time spent with her, we burst into tears at rememberance of what we have lost. And, honestly, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get over it.
Most people don't get the priviledge of knowing thier grandparent's as well as I knew mine. Granny Helen really connected with me and understood things that my own parents or best friends could not.
