The Street

A grief encounter

I’ll be fully honest. I used to love writing. I love writing. I don’t even know which sentence to pick. I enjoyed writing, up until the day of February 1st of this year.

It is the day my mind reminded me of when I was walking to work this morning. It’s a weird thing, but every time I’m coming to the end of Graham Street to cross City Road a sad memory hits me in the face, being the causer of tears running down my face. Same, unexciting, bit of the walk every time. I don’t know what it is, but my dad says he has it too on a same, random bit of the road on his way back from work.

Today it was February 1st that slapped me in the face. The day everything changed. It was a Wednesday. Today’s a Tuesday, and I sit in the same ‘cubbie’ at work as I did that day. Shiv’s looking to sit in the same row today. She sat in the same row on that Wednesday. I was elsewhere in the office for a team meeting. I have no clue with whom or what it was about. I do know I had a missed call from my uncle when I came back to my workplace for the day. Shivers. From the top of my neck, through all of my spine. There’s no reason for him to call me during day time than a bad one. It was the worst one.

I didn’t know what to do. The worst possible news had reached me. I wasn’t there. There was nothing else I could do than cry. Sob. Hope. My mom nearly died and was in the intensive care, but I needed hope. I felt horrible. Not being there to know what was going on every minute. I called my best friend and my sister back home. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to do. There was Shiv. She heard, she cared and she convinced me to not worry about work and just book a flight. I did, but still I didn’t know what to do. How does one hope in such severe despair? In uncertainty that’s out of your control?

I didn’t enjoy writing this down. Not one bit. I also didn’t like that sentence. And there’s so much more to that day that’s not even there yet on this digital piece of paper. It’s like standing naked in front of a class room. Not that I ever did, but looking back at it now it just feels cold, pityful, a situation you want to get out off. Run away. Pretend it never happened. But to where? The hallway won’t make it better, nor the streets…

Paper always used to be a place I could run to. And I know I need to go there again, because February 1st was just the start. There will be many more walks to work via Graham Street. Staying put in the ‘classroom’ is not an option, running away isn’t either. This situation has no solution. I just know I need to move, find my way to a life that is forever different. Step by step, word by word. This is the start of a story I don’t want to write, but need to, to do so. This is the story of my story.