When my eyes opened, there was a surreal essence in the room. A sense of unfairness invaded my weak body, even though I knew I was no one to judge life.
I prayed for the first time in years. I tried to remember Our Father, the Hail Mary; I ended up mixing them.
There was no deity to adore, or mantra to ease my mind. Life had changed.
Sometime between the sunset and sunrise, the direction changed, the winds returned, and the dust spiraled. Movement came at a time when she was supposed to rest from the daily war and trust the calmness of her sleep. It was a time for suspension of consciousness, not for annihilation.
Did you feel when your heart beat decreased along with your breathing? Did you feel asphyxiated when your respiration began to fade away? Did you try to catchup to Grandpa’s breathing?
The world went on as usual, but for me it looked different. Grandma was dead. Mom had lost her mom.
How was I supposed to continue dancing with time, if one of the dancers was missing? How was I supposed to hug my mom and tell her she’ll be fine after one of her creators disappeared? How was I supposed to embrace life, if a life was missing?
No goodbye, no explanation. It just happened. Was it destiny, Jesus, life, science?
One thing is clear: when I opened my eyes, she didn’t open hers.