When I was 8 years old, my family and I would visit my gradnmother in a care home. The day she died, I was walking around aimlessly in the halls and exploring the different rooms out of curiosity. When I was nearer to the room my grandmother was in, I heard a highpitched agonized scream. I recognized the pitch and tone to be my mother's and I ran to the room out of worry.
When I arrived, I was in a state of shock and a wave of numbness flooded over me. There in the room was my grandmothers body lying lifeless on the bed that once belonged to her.
My mother was seated in a chair next to it, looking at her with tears in her eyes and a red face, cringing with frustration and pain.
The scene was processed quickly in my mind and I was flooded with memories of when I had overheard my parents talking in the car about how they thought shed die soon.
I knew what dying was.
I knew what death was. Both of my parents had explained it plentiful of times already to me by that age.
But seeing it, in person.
Not a scene on a television screen.
Not a paragraph in a book.
Not words being spoken to you.
It was death right infront of my eyes for me to gaze and figure.
The room was silent. My brother and father looked with an empathetic and dull stare towards my mother and the now dead body she was clinging to.
From that day on, I stopped living in the moment.
I developed a conscious.
I had become aware of thoughts.
