"It's like a scent in the rain, a feeling of home.
Its intricacy remains forever inexplicable and yet unfathomable by even the soundest of minds."
Those were the first words of an article published by my school when describing what it meant to reminisce. I, for one, fully saw the message encrypted. Petulance became a facet of my new person over the last two years ever since the passing of my beloved, my grandmother.
As I stared into empty space, my mind itinerated from one thought to another, creating a faction between grief and anger in me. It's been two years since I lost her, but it still felt like yesterday. As I scanned through my thoughts looking for an anchor to hold onto, I heard my name. "Justin, Justin, could you please tell the whole class what utopian adventure you were having in your head?", the teacher said assertively. I tilted my head to the left, then to the right, before acquiescing to her question.
I stood up, gazing at the condescending looks from a lot of successful, well-to-do classmates of mine, and said, stammering, 'N-N-Nothing, ma'am. ' In exhaustion, she asked me to sit down and to pay more attention. Now, why I said nothing is what I tried to figure out. I could hear the endless prattle from my emotions, begging me to convey my somewhat ineffable emotions in tears, but I stood strong. Did I say nothing because I couldn't talk about it or because I thought my thoughts were too sophisticated to be checked? Either way, I wasn't ready for a conversation that would end with "I'm sorry for your loss". Those were mere words that could barely explain the depth of grief and poignancy one experienced.
Constantly struggling with the thoughts that rushed through my rather heavy brain, I let out a rather loud sigh that could be heard right through the hallway. Perhaps it was time I excused myself from school, I thought. My grandmother was a loving soul; the thought of seeing her always enthralls me; her escapades, even at her age, showed how much life she had left in her.
It's quite plausible that some would disregard my grief to some extent when they hear that I'm mourning an old woman. Old age became and still is an excuse for death, except that it wasn't what made my grandmother die.
She got poisoned by her chef, which was rather morbid after figuring out that the same chef tried to poison my aunt's family with whom my grandmother lived.
Meticulously explains the sordidity in the world today. Apart from the constant pandemonium we face in consensus, we're still vying for our very own lives as people, just like us, want to see us dead. I took a moment to fear the world and its desires.
Her mellifluous voice while she sang a lullaby filled my head, and I often hummed it whenever I was in utter distress. Impervious to the claims that she lived a long life, I felt wistful that I couldn't expedite my future so I'd be able to cater to her financially, emotionally, and physically.
Devoid of any complexity, she lived a simple life clear of a grandiloquent nature. Always saw the need to be a good and understanding person, especially in such perilous times. Getting home I said with a moody tone, 'Mum, it's happening again'.
She rushed to my room to help me gain reprieve from my troubling thoughts, notwithstanding how dumbfounded she was that I was still haunted by these memories.
"What's the problem, sweetie?" she said as her voice shrieked, giving me a percipience of her struggles with the whole situation. Eager to relieve some pressure off her, I muttered, 'I just miss grandma'.
She saw right through my subtlety and immediately consoled me with a warm hug. Mum always reminded me of how tender my grandmother was. Even when they don't understand what someone is fully going through, they realize the pain that comes from being stressed out and unstable and use that to spread comfort.
I let out a tear, long overdue, you'd all agree. I was heartbroken. Felt like I should've been poisoned instead of my grandmother since I was supposed to eat the food she ate. Oops! Guess the cat's out of the bag, hence revealing the origin of my indelible pain. I didn't want to blame myself, but I found myself muttering to Mum, saying, 'It's my fault she's dead.' Mum hugged me tighter, finally understanding the concept of the pain harbored in me. Reminiscing on those special moments with my grandmother, I always let out a chuckle. At this point, the question was;
"Why did she have to die like that?"
'She could've died of old age, as many presumed was the reason she died, but why like that?' I said, now wailing uncontrollably. I found myself questioning my purpose of living, and Mum grew ever scared.
She beseeched I calmed down but this was just the start of my downfall. I had let my grief, pain, and guilt reach its crescendo, and now it suddenly feels like everything is crumbling. Deservedly so. I deserved every bit of what happened, to me, that is.
Found myself staring at my grandmother's frame hanging by the wall across my door. Resplendent, to say the least. Her face could only dare to reveal an iota of her wondrous personality but it did. I love and miss her so much and I started shaking till I heard a loud thud on the floor.
Mum rushed in, saying, "Not again". Not again? 'Not again, what?', I said.
"This is your third nightmare in four days, "she said concerned. With my hands fidgeting, and my body shaking, an epiphany struck;
Wait, what?!!!!!!
This was all a charade?!!!
I was starstruck, literally. I could see and feel everything as if it was real. Then, I thought, 'Where's grandma?'
I had barely completed my statement before my grandmother came with the special chamomile tea she often made for me.
I hugged her tightly and she just smiled warmly.
Gosh, definitely the sweetest nightmare I've ever had, though, hopefully never again.
Thanks for reading!
voice of your piece, and affects readability at times. Secondly, you do not always use appropriate formal words within the context of the sentence. Thirdly, you sometimes use less common archaic words that would not be likely candidates for writers in this kind of space. As a result, it feels a little off. It is the kind of output one would get from using AI to paraphrase one's work, or indiscriminate use of a Thesaurus, resulting in formal language inappropriate to the voice and flow of a piece, or word choices that are incorrect for the context within which they are being used. I would recommend that you consider whether a formal word is or is not more appropriate than a simpler word that may drive greater clarity for your readers. Sometimes, a more formal complex word is the perfect choice to capture the writer's desired specific meaning, but it needs to align with the general voice and tone of a piece and be used appropriately within the context of your story.hello @owen222. The images that you use are not royalty-free. Unless you can evidence that you own the right to use them, kindly remove them from your post. A further reflection on this creative non-fiction is the use of highly formal (often uncommon) words scattered throughout your piece. There are several things that can be drawn from this. Firstly, your choice of formal words doesn't always flow with the
I also note that you have only supported one other story this time and remind you that we require our writers to support at least two other stories, each time they make a submission to The Ink Well. We also require these engagements to be meaningful and would ask that you reconsider whether comments like the below are considered and meaningful responses to a writer's efforts.
"Crazy. the hate is crazy."
"Cool stuff."
"Wonderful stuff, I must say."
I've removed the images and reconstructed my last comment.
Although, I don't think I can start editing all my work as it could lose the original message.
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A beautiful story indeed
Good one , expressed well and a nice story line to follow.
Good to see, sound to hear.
Greetings.