A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.

A death in the family.

                My grandmother is terminally ill with breast cancer, and although this may be a dreary topic for Valentine’s Day, it seems to be all that’s eating away at my thoughts this week.

                I don’t think I should be posting this, simply because I have this misfortune streak, where whatever I say is both out of line and horribly misunderstood, but I feel like I should post this anyways. It’s a bit of a catharsis, one might say? Either way, I feel like I should get some things off my chest regarding the issue:

                Now my grandmother and I were never particularly close, so I wouldn’t benefit from “I’m sorry” notes, but I still can’t help pondering her death.

                In all honesty I am happy for her.

                That may sound like an odd thing to say in regards to the death of an individual, but I truly am happy for her. She’s made it. This is the final chapter, and she’s made it to the end.

                I might as well express my feelings towards death now, before everyone reading decides I’m a heartless bitch: I prefer to feel a sense of comfort for the end of a life—an end regarding old age, mind you—this person, grays now adorning their tired heads, have lived and experienced life. I like to think—I genuinely hope—they’ve experienced live to its absolute fullest. That they have done everything they would have liked; that they’ve had both pleasant and unpleasant surprises; that they enjoyed living. And that this last chapter is a bit of comfort for them: it’s over. All the bad things one experiences, all the fears: I like to think they evaporate and only the good memories are left. Or if they have no good memories, that they take comfort in the fact the bad things won’t matter anymore.

                I like to think they’re visited by loved ones, if they believe in such a thing. That their souls drift to give little presents to the living, if they believe this is so. That they see their own version of the pearly gates, if that’s what they believe in. My grandmother believed only a finite number of people make it to heaven.

                I genuinely hope she’s on the list.

                My grandfather died a few years ago, and I like to believe they’ll be nagging each other in the heaven they believe in again, grandfather cooking grandmother her meals, despite the pain he felt in his joints, all because of love.

                Grandaddy was a blue eyed devil from Texas whom ran away to Mexico from being drafted to Vietnam. He spoke enough Spanish to survive and hold a job, and was content mining the land alongside his friends, ‘til he met a woman in a laundry mat and fell in love on sight. He nagged her into marriage, despite her many children, and raised them as his own, along with a pair of twins he had with this woman together. His name was Anthony, but everyone called him “Antonio” or “Tony”.

                Grandmother grew to love that “charming” man eventually. He was her second husband, and a much harder worker than her first, a charming musician (another white boy, ginger, green eyes). He put bread on the table. He took care of the kids. He was kind to her (I think. No one has ever said otherwise).

                One day, he let it slip he was from Texas, and she demanded they immigrate to the United States. He received pardon and brought his family over.

They were never saints. They were never the perfect parents. They never treated all their children equally, but grandfather was always a kind man when we visited (of my sisters and I, I visited the least. I still don’t know why). Grandmother was a slightly different story.

                She never loved me, and I can’t blame her. Like I said, I was never there. I was not there enough for her to know me at all, and she was known well for her quick temper. She gave me the time of day, and in retrograde, I’m grateful for that.

                My father is the oldest child of her first marriage. I’ve grown up hearing many stories from his childhood, and the childhoods of his siblings from the first marriage. Some were fun, some not so fun. Despite this, I don’t doubt she loved them. I also don’t doubt they all love her.

                Now, in her final moments, there are tears and quarrels and silence, but above all else, there’s love.

                I’m glad.

                I’m glad they’re all worried over trying to be there during the end. And I’m glad they’re mourning.

                There’s love in that family.

                I don’t think I’m of any use during these last moments, besides maybe a bit of comfort. So I’m not completely sure why I go on the visits to my grandmother’s myself. I’m glad I do, though. I want to be there with everyone else when it happens. I’ll be weeping too, but I’ll be weeping for them: for her children, who loved her so dearly and won’t be seeing her again for quite some time.

                I pity the living the most.

                In the end, I don’t think there’s much I could ever say to my grandmother, spare maybe a “thank you”. Thank you for giving birth to and raising my father. Though you were never the best as far as I can tell from the stories I’ve been told, you must’ve done something right, because I couldn’t ask for a better father.

                “Thank you, and I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for never being there, I guess. I’m sorry for not being what you wanted, if you expected anything of me at all. I’m sorry for not existing (I don’t know what this means yet)? I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I feel as though I should definitely apologize for something.

“Thank you, and good luck.” I still genuinely want you to see heaven.

“Thank you, and goodbye.”

  [edit] She just pasted on.

Nikola Strange.