I Still Have Time

It’s just another day, right? Another beautiful and sunny day, just that grandpa is not with us anymore. “Rest in peace, gramps,” I say. I look at his gravestone. Well, 86 is not a bad age to die, though I really wish he died in his sleep and not because of a heart attack. I feel sorry for him, yet I’m not crying now for somehow I wasn’t that close to him. Rarely did I meet him when he was still alive — not with the 572 miles that used to separate us.
I can feel my heart shattering to pieces. I feel like I’m physically hurt, but it isn’t because of his death. Sometimes you see another person feels a certain way towards something you consider insignificant, and it kind of makes you experience similar feelings — that’s how I feel today, a strange and somewhat abnormal experience. I’m hurt, just by looking at my mother.
My mother had always been the strongest one in our family. She had never failed to put on a smile on her face, no matter what. But she forgot to do that this morning. She looked pale, and her skin was dull. She didn’t even bother wearing any make-up. I had never been able to see her fine lines, but this morning, I could. Perhaps it was because I never paid that much attention to her appearance. Nonetheless, I have known this woman my whole life and she had never been this way before. Wearing her long, black dress and her gray veil, she looked as if she was already dead. Her dark brown eyes somehow appeared darker than they ever were. She had always smelled like sweet vanilla. Such a pleasant smell didn’t pay us any visit this morning. How much I wish it did.
I touch my hair, imagining hers. We have the same soft, shiny, straight brown hair. Something I never thanked her for. My hair wouldn’t be like this if I were to inherit my dad’s hair traits. I stroke my cheek. Like hers, my skin is baby smooth. Another trait I never thanked her for.
I heard her cry last night, so painful that I can still hear it clearly, lingering in my ears. I try to think of delightful things to make it go away. I think of how my mother loves music. How she loves those meaningful, emotional songs. How she does not eat a lot of meat, but not to keep her figure — she actually prefers veggies, something I can never understand. How she always carries a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer wherever she goes. How she enjoys listening to me play the piano. How she sings, beautifully. I think of every nice thing I could possibly think of about, little quirks I never paid too much thought of, but suddenly seem so significant today.
I can still hear it.

I’ve been sitting on my knees for what feels like hours. The grass felt soft on my skin, but now it hurts. I just realized that I’ve been staring at the words carved on my grandpa’s gravestone for a while. My head hurts. I think too much, picturing images that won’t go away.
Oh, hey, there’s my mother. She’s lying on a bed in a room with which I’m not quite familiar. Everything’s white. The wall has some cracks in the corners, but they’re still clean, white, mostly spotless. There are tools lying here and there — scary medical equipment.
I still remember that day as if it was yesterday. Every tiny detail of it is still here, in my head. I remember how everyone cried when the doctor informed us that my mom had breast cancer. Only when he told us that it was already in stage III, I knew how serious it was.
I see something else. I see my father screaming at someone. Who? Me? I look around and find my mother standing in the corner of the room. She seems hurt. What did I do? I look at my mother again. She’s holding a phone and a thick book. A photo album, perhaps?
Ah, it was the day my grandma passed, and that night I was supposed to attend a traditional ceremony with my family where people would gather and pray for my grandma. I didn’t want to go because I wasn’t any closer to her as I was to my grandfather. I tried to find a way to avoid going. I remember lying. I can’t exactly remember what I said as an excuse, but chances are it was something far less important than the ceremony that I should have gone to.
I can still recall what my mom said to me that night, “Grandma’s not hurt, she’s not here anymore. But if you truly love me, you’ll know that my mother was, no, is as important as you are to me.” She was calm, but I know she was hurt.
Dad was beyond mad. He told me to keep my mother happy, because that was exactly what cancer patients needed to aid healing. He told me my mother wasn’t going to survive if I didn’t give her something to fight for. It wasn’t that I didn’t know, I was just stubborn, rebellious, and brash.
Grandpa died a week ago and my mother had been doing very well, up until today. For the first time, I witnessed her breaking down. When the coffin was lowered, I took a glance at her. She had been closing her eyes the whole time. Today, I saw the strongest woman I had ever known suddenly becoming the weakest out of everyone there. She didn’t cry this morning, but she did last night. Even though I wish I didn’t know, I do.
It is now two hours past noon. The sun is irritatingly blinding, the heat almost unbearable. I see a few people sitting beside different gravestones. Some are crying, some are not. Flowers come into sight here and there, left on several graves, and yet I can’t smell them. I want to be able to sniff in the fragrant smell of these flowers, but all my nose can detect is grass and dirt.
I close my eyes once again, and the images from my grandpa’s funeral take over my mind. My mother gave a speech. She told everyone about how her dad had been a really wonderful father to her, how she felt she hadn’t been a really good daughter, and how she probably hadn’t been a really good mother too. I felt the urge to cry, but I held it back. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her even though I didn’t show it often enough, but I didn’t. I wanted to tell her what a strong woman she was in my eyes, but I didn’t. I wanted to hug her and tell her that everything would be okay, but I didn’t. Instead, I remained seated. I did nothing, said nothing, until everyone left the funeral, and until she did too. Then I got up and sat on my knees beside my grandfather’s gravestone.
Grandpa looked healthy the last time I met him, powerfully defying any possibilities of a heart problem. Then all of a sudden he passed away while it hadn’t even been a month since the last time we talked. It was a pure shock for everyone. But for me, it was so much more than that. I realize now that perhaps it is time for me to devote more time to those of whom I care about. I should cherish every moment spent with my loved ones. More than anything, I should be grateful that my mom is still here, alive and breathing, for me to talk to, for me to hug, for me to love.
Here I am, still sitting on the ground. The grass still hurts my knees. The wind still blows ever so slightly. The sun is still high. The heat is still unbearable. The smell is still unpleasant. I am waiting for something of which I don’t even know. I can’t move, I can’t bring myself to get up and leave. Here I am, just staring at the words on the gravestone.
