I feel horrible. I’m in the backseat of my dad’s work car. It’s an ordinary Wednesday in spring, and I’m numb with sadness. I have cried nonstop for a couple of days now, and I’m tired. There is nothing left to let out. I can’t stop thinking about it, but I can’t really cope either. I’m broken. That’s the only way to describe it.
My mum and dad sit in the front seat, both red eyed and quiet. We haven’t talked much since we found out. Well, my mum has tried, but I guess she soon found out she wasn’t doing any good. There is no way to make this good. We can’t really say anything. I don’t want to say anything. The only one who could make this better is the one who’s caused it all: my grandma.
She was the most amazing woman. She was kind, clever, mysterious, bubbly. She was the only one who could make me feel understood and valuable. She was my escape from my usual teenage problems. What better way to forget about annoying friends, hard school work, cute but obnoxious boys, other than to visit grandma and learn about her new heal-headaches-and-sweaty feet-recipe? She was pretty much a witch, and I loved it. She didn’t only teach me everything, and let me in on her secrets, she also made me believe in it all. I am 15 years old, and I believe you can cure sore muscles by eating salmon upside down, while humming like a bear. Weird, but effective.
Now, she is dead. How can someone so evergreen and upbeat die? I mean, she was old, but still. I never knew for sure just how old, but she must have been at least 70 or so. Maybe over 100. Maybe not. She was probably ageless. I’m not sure I even want to know how old she really was.
Dad said she died of age, in her sleep. That her neighbor found her with a little smirk, in peace, in her bed, dead. Just like that. I’m not sure I believe it. Why would someone so magical and healthy die like that? I think it’s a cover up. I think she died in a more exciting way. In a magical way no one is supposed to know about. That’d be more likely.
Anyway, since dad is her only child, and all other family is dead or not interested, we have to go and sort her things out. Dad said he’ll sell her house and throw away most of her things, just because it’s mainly junk. I never even tried to argue, although I think he’s wrong. Her house is a bit worn down, I’ll admit, but it’s wonderful. Her things are amazing as well. I’d never call things junk only because I’m not sure what their purpose is. I mean, if it’d been my mum’s things, I probably would, but not grandma’s. But then again, I’d never try to argue with dad in these sad times.
We live about a two hour drive away from grandma’s house, which has never been a problem to me. There is a bus I usually take, which I don’t mind. Today, though, the two hour drive seems longer. It’s quite unbearable to sit behind two sobbing parents, knowing grandma wont be there to greet us this time. I wish the time would go faster. Actually, I wish the time would go back so I could see her again. There’s no recipe for that, though. Not that I know of anyway.