Heavy are the crowns we wear, Invisible, but not silent, Bendable, but not fragile, Loving, self-sacrificing, Unable to be forgotten,
A laurel of desperation, Seeking safety, warmth, and control– Small, but sturdy in novice hands, Arches, possibilities within reach, Fitting loosely on an ambitious head,
An anadem of Renaissance, Provoked by imagination and intellect, Eager, encompassing, One that births revelations, A statement to those who offer their gaze,
A garland of frugality, Dulled and scratched in the face of war, Marred by gruff, firm hands, Witness to crimson, bone, and coal; Treasured even in the new era,
A chaplet of enduring strength, Waterlogged with the weight of grief, Ashes, dense as streams, Polished to a shine with regrets, Dinged, dimpled from the buffeting of obligations,
A coronet of shining radiance Filled with the adoration of her subjects, Jewels, not of decadence, But those that still shine with opulence, Valued beyond her last days, Hidden away between painful breaths,
A diadem of bittersweet ties, Reflecting a lifetime of servitude, Unearthing the value after a dynasty dies, Buffed to a mirror reflection, The lines tracing the story of ghosts,
Heavy are the crowns we wear, Passed onto us from predecessors, Our fingers trace a mottled ancestry to times unknown, But the love and sacrifice are not forgotten.
Grieving, I believe, Is so delicate, and fragmenting, Because it is The understanding that We are bound to love, All ways… Deeply, Profoundly, To wear a widow’s wedding band As its tourmaline dulls, To walk those rooms in which a widower Could not stop crying, pressing his palms Into the floor And loathing the linoleum Because it reminds him that His love and body Are real, Wracked with the sorrow That we only withstand because We are forced To continue Cherishing, Remembering.
Children send letters, On balloons, Into persimmon twilights, Watching the words They dare not say– But write instead– Drift towards the heavens That look so cold to them… To heal the hurt That crusts over Like marmalade on the jar’s rim; They love ruefully, Bungling with the buttons On their shirts Because a parent Used to dress them;
We feel grief because We are saying goodbye To the moments we live, The seconds, Third glances, Final embraces, The feelings, thoughts, Farewells we’ve yet to accept, That dawdle alongside us, With untied shoes, Long before Loss picks up her child In a minivan; And then, The heaving of a broken heart ebbs, Tarnishing, Like a silver teapot, Until Longing polishes it alone, When a dog loves unconditionally, Or a paramour plants praise like Crocuses in snow;
The orchestra swells in tragedy… The conductor weeps, too, Knowing the song must, inevitably, end, So she loves Until the final note’s echo Joins the balloons, Letters, And every airy and feeble hope That our hearts Would hold less.
You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. It should make you happy, but instead it aches. You can’t curl up inside your childish innocence because it isn’t there. You could pretend it was, if you really wanted to, but you don’t want to really. As you watch the early morning sunlight dance across the wall, you wonder if you can change things this time. You wonder who you’d be if the bad things that happened to you never happened to you. Did they make you better? Did they make you worse? If the bad things that happened to you never happened to you, would you truly be you?
You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You realise that you’ll need to pretend that nothing has changed, and so you go downstairs, your bare feet treading on stairs that you haven’t touched for years. Your brother is already in the kitchen, and he is still your brother because he doesn’t hate you yet. His face is the same as it once was, trapped in the liminal space between boy and man, and his eyes meet yours with that look that only a brother can master, halfway between awe and disgust, respect and embarrassment, shame and love. Before it really occurs to you what you’re doing, you pull him into a hug, the kind of hug that clamps and tightens, the kind of hug that suffocates but is all love, so much love, love that can maim you and love that can mend you. He stiffens at first, then realises that there is no audience to perform for, no jeering friends lingering in the corners of the room, and, as his bony arms wrap around you, a thought solidifies in your mind that things cannot decay this time, that you must hold onto this bond for dear life, grasping and gasping until the rope burns your palms, because this time you cannot lose your brother.
Your sister is not there. Your sister is never there. Your sister is an absence. Your sister is the space between heartbeats, the gap between ribs, the sound of silence on the other end of the telephone.
You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. Your dad comes down and makes breakfast, because that is what he always used to do, and the crackling of bacon and the music on the radio hit you like the melody of a song you haven’t heard in years; first slowly, then like a fierce punch in the stomach with all the force of a car crash. You realise now that you never used to appreciate these tender moments, too tired to do more than sit and watch the breeze dancing through the kitchen blinds. You never appreciated these moments, because you hadn’t realised yet that one day they would be over. You never noticed that, morning by morning, your father was getting older, his presence less resolute, his voice and body less strong. You never considered the fact that one day your mornings would be silent, that one day your father would be gone. But now, burdened by the knowledge that your father’s time is running increasingly short, you wish that you could live in this moment forever, eternally untouched by the sands of time.
You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You make your way back upstairs after breakfast, and, as you reach the hallway, the scent of your mother’s perfume drifts towards you, as gentle as the lullaby she would whisper across your fevered forehead on unsettled nights: a balm of words, a remedy of song. There was always a tenderness to your mother, but there was a sharpness too. She was quick to comfort but even quicker to blame. She was there to take you into her arms after the bad things happened, but she was also the first to suggest that you might have deserved it somehow, that perhaps you had been too forward, too bold, too reckless, too impulsive, too much, too yourself. She was a confidant and an accuser, an ally and a judge, a friend and a stranger. She was your mother, and yet you never truly knew her. You knew only the masks she would present to the world, the image she would carefully curate while the rest of the family was eating breakfast, the perfume, the final act of the performance. You do not knock on the door, because you don’t want your mother to see you. You never wanted your mother to see you, and yet, at the same time, you wanted nothing more. You don’t want your mother to see you because your mother could always see through you, and she would be the first to know that something was different, that you weren’t the child you had been the day before, that you never would be again.
You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You realise with a sense of certainty that you cannot stay. You have long overgrown the mold that was cast for you there. Trying to live out a life that you have experienced before makes you feel ungainly, a giant trying to live in a miniature cardboard town. You’re the only living soul in a house of ghosts, and you can feel yourself slowly becoming haunted. The bad things that happened will happen, have happened, will never not happen, and you would be foolish to try and change that. You wake up in your childhood bedroom, but you do not fall asleep there. You close your bedroom door for the last time, walk down the stairs, open your front door, and walk out into the mild summer night. You don’t know where you are going, but you know that you can’t return. You try and tell yourself that things are better this way, but the lost child inside you knows that that is a lie.
There’s this childhood film that, no matter how outdated the CGI clearly is, just seems to get me — even today. “The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl” made me feel seen in my perceived difference from others my age; I was naturally more of a loner, more of someone on the outside. As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve come to relate to the movie’s plot through a different understanding —that of losing loved ones.
An unexpected loss times two
At seventeen, I lost my maternal grandfather, Grampy, to stage four brain cancer. A year later, I lost my maternal grandmother, Hud, due to an incident at her assisted living space during the pandemic. Both deaths were unexpected for our entire family.
I couldn’t process it all at the time. It was too much, too fast.
As Grampy and Hud’s only grandchild, we had a strong bond, and they were an integral part of my support system. I felt their encouragement no matter where I was in life. They celebrated me and consistently showed up for events like Girl Scouts, choir performances, birthdays, and more.
I don’t think I’d be the person I am today if it weren’t for both of them.
I often reminisce on the memories I have of my grandparents, looking through scrapbooks we made together and watching movies we loved — like “The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl.” Over the course of the last few years, I’ve begun to process my grief through these actions. I’ve also managed to retain a connection with my grandparents despite their deaths.
Reconnecting with the things I enjoyed when I was younger allows me to experience how life was when Hud and Grampy were alive — easier, more fun. It’s a temporary escape from the stress of daily life, from adulthood.
Grampy and Hud on one side, Sharkboy and Lavagirl on the other
In “The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl,” the protagonist, Max, uses a fantasy realm as a method of coping with bullying and family issues; the dream world is his safe place. Like Max in his dream world, my dreams allow me to continue my life with Grampy and Hud as it once was.
In my own dream world, my grandparents regularly appear. We carry out everyday tasks together, like shopping, going out to eat, and having Tuesday night dinners at their house. I wish that time was infinite in those dreams. In other dreams, they’re alive, and I’m trying to prevent their deaths to no avail. Those dreams can’t end fast enough.
I now have a constant fear of unexpectedly losing more loved ones. Emergency medical situations are anxiety-inducing, as are travel plans. My grief is also hard to contain — it overflows, causes me to do things out of the ordinary, and makes me want to punish myself. It’s agonizing, and intensifies my depression and suicidal thoughts. I blame myself for what happened to them, even though I know it wasn’t my fault.
When life doesn’t feel as heavy, I speak about who Grampy and Hud were in honor, much like Max proudly sharing the legacies of Sharkboy and Lavagirl to his peers.
(Image courtesy of Johannes Plenio on Unsplash)
I don’t know where they went
Mentioning Hud and Grampy in the past tense reminds me of Max in the beginning of the film, when he’s unable to explain where Sharkboy and Lavagirl are. Another character asks him: “Why don’t you bring Sharkboy and Lavagirl to class tomorrow?” Max explains, “They went away. I don’t know where they went.”
Much like Max, I don’t know where Hud and Grampy are or where they went. I’m not religious, nor do I have any particular beliefs about what happens after. In all honesty, I don’t really want to think about in what state they might — or might not — exist.
Max knows that Sharkboy and Lavagirl are real, and he knows where they are when he’s asleep — they come alive when he’s dreaming. At the behest of his family and peers, Max tries to tell himself that Sharkboy and Lavagirl don’t exist, but he finds it difficult to believe. This reminds me of the first stage of grief: denial.
Immediately after Hud and Grampy’s deaths, I found it challenging to refer to them in the past tense. It was an internal denial of their passing; I just couldn’t accept it.
The aftermath holds so many questions
I daydream often about how differently my life would have turned out if my grandparents were still alive. Would I be happier? Would I still have admitted myself to a psychiatric facility last year? Maybe it’s unrealistic to think their presence would have changed much, but the questions remain for me.
There’s a moment in the film where Lavagirl asks Max to dream about her so her identity will become stronger. She tells him, “Dream about me next, Max, I need to know who I am. Not just destruction, or a simple flame. Dream of me as something good.”
I frequently wonder which pieces of my identity are a result of Grampy and Hud’s love and which pieces were lost when they died. More questions bound through my brain during these moments.
Would they think I’m a good person? Have I made them proud? What advice would they give me? I’ll never know the answers to these questions, and I never will.
I can’t change the past or bring them back to this earth. However, I can focus on how much love they had for me, and I for them. Those recollections are my safe place, especially when life feels heavy.
I can’t yet mend the parts of myself that were broken when they died back together, but I can hold onto their memory. And like Max, I can dream of them — where life goes on just as it used to.
My jeans are drenched as I look At the blurred images of you. It is hard to Remember your face, though, when I can Look in a mirror, I see you. Every night When I go to bed, I think About my life if you were. I might understand boys better. Every year, when it’s your birthday, I would Ask what your gift would be. You Shrugged,
Million dollars? A drawing, picture, or a pair of socks?
Every year I want You in front of me. Your grizzly arms surrounding Me. I turn to the earth And beg
