The day before I was to leave, a phone call shattered the quiet of my afternoon—my grandmother (Dad’s side) had passed away, aged 96. The following day, I found myself stepping into a funeral home for the first time. There’s a distant, blurred memory of another visit long ago, but it’s so faint it almost feels imagined. Even though I had recently pondered the nature of death in writing, nothing could have braced me for the flood of emotions that surged through me—from the moment I heard the news to the moment I stood beside her still body.
Inside the funeral parlor, the cold air conditioning added an unnatural chill to the already somber atmosphere. People huddled close to their loved ones, engaging in subdued conversations, cracking sunflower seeds as if it were any other gathering. My grandmother lay in a glass coffin at the center, her eyes gently closed, as though merely asleep. Her presence there felt jarringly out of place, a stark contrast to the somberness that filled the room. She looked so different from the vibrant woman captured in the photos that lived in my memory—her once full frame had withered significantly since I last saw her.
As I approached her, a lump formed in my throat. It wasn’t just familial love, nor was it simple grief. It was an indescribable, tumultuous mix of emotions—a swirl of memories and the unrelenting passage of time. For me, death had always been an abstract concept, distant and removed. The word “passing” seemed inadequate to encapsulate the profound sense of loss and the emergence of emotions I hadn’t anticipated. It was a new existence in life, an inevitable lesson that life thrust upon me.
What does it mean to be family?
My grandmother and I weren’t related by blood, but a sense of belonging and identity isn’t solely forged by shared DNA. My connection to family has always been faint—a thread stretched thin between distance and closeness. I’ve never been certain of where I truly belong, and I’ve never felt a deep-rooted sense of belonging anywhere. From a young age, I was dissatisfied with my surroundings, always looking beyond them, my heart yearning for the unknown. My family members recall that before I turned ten, I loved the company of adults, always chattering and full of energy. “You’ve become quieter,” they say now, “You’ve grown up and become more reserved.” While I know in my heart that they are my closest relatives by blood, the years of unfamiliarity have left me feeling estranged. My heart is tender, yet within it, there’s an empty space that has been growing, like a void expanding, though I can’t pinpoint when it began.
In my world, many family members and friends occupy a similar space in my heart. I don’t often think of them, but when I do, the thought tightens my chest. In 2021, a friend—not particularly close, but always kind in her compliments—chose to leave this world. The last time I saw her was in the library I frequented. She waved at me, smiling as she complimented my yellow crop top. Her unique tattoos and bright smile are forever frozen in that winter. She wasn’t family, and our interactions were few, easily counted on one hand.
The impact of my grandmother’s passing feels just as strange and complex as that. Friends can become family, and family can become friends. The marks they leave on my heart vary in depth, but their essence remains the same.
What does it mean to age?
Just a few days ago, we celebrated my grandfather’s 80th birthday. His unsteady gait and my grandmother’s casual mention, “My daughter (my mom) is already 51,” brought the weight of those years crashing down on me. Not long ago, I thought of 80 as a distant milestone, an abstract number. But now, it has taken on a tangible reality. Behind those 80 years lie fragile bones, insulin imbalances, cloudy eyes with bluish rims, skin marked by age spots and wrinkles, and a widening communication gap with the younger generation.
Aging, for reasons I can’t fully explain, always carries with it a profound sadness, like an invisible countdown or a sword hanging over us. It’s as if everyone is silently aware of something unspeakable, yet no one acknowledges it openly. Instead, it manifests in other ways: the health supplements on the table, the wheelchair in the shopping cart, the travel plans hastily made, and the section of the bank account quietly set aside.
What is empathy?
I often claim I’m not skilled at empathy, yet my emotions betray me at unexpected moments. I don’t believe anyone can achieve perfect empathy. “What we ultimately understand and appreciate are things that, at their core, mirror our own experiences.” Perhaps I’m not truly empathetic, but rather adept at linking others’ experiences to emotions that resonate with my own. When someone I know passes away, it triggers a wave of feelings about the fragility of life, its fleeting nature, and the helplessness in the face of inevitable loss—emotions that demand acceptance.
These irrational thoughts and emotions might stem from a deep reverence for life, or perhaps they are instinctive responses, woven into the fabric of our being.
Is death truly frightening?
There was a time I sat by a river, watching a woman push a baby stroller, contemplating the cycles and milestones of life. We begin as children, cared for by others; then we become adults who care for children and the elderly, only to eventually return to a state of dependency in old age. It’s a vast, unbroken loop. From the moment we’re born, we carry the burden of completing this cycle. Whether we follow the well-trodden paths of others or forge our own, our lives are brief passages within this eternal cycle. Strangely, despite my frequent anxiety about my health, in many moments, I feel no fear of death at all. Often, I exist in a state of “not enough,” yet in certain moments, I find myself reaching a sense of “beyond enough.” This oscillation between “not enough” and “beyond enough” mirrors the swing between pain and exhaustion, creating a smaller loop within the greater cycle. Perhaps most people experience occasional fears of death—an intrusive thought, a reaction to internalized information from the world around us, leaving us uncertain of how to respond.
Growing up seems to mean confronting more goodbyes, more permanent farewells. In the not-so-distant future, I will inevitably face more death, both indirectly and directly. Perhaps, one day, I will experience compassion fatigue, yet the conversation about life and death is one without an end, whether it involves strangers, family, or myself.
Between a temporary goodbye and a permanent one, there lies only a longer wait.
19til29 