Wonderland is a tumblelog.

I woke up this morning
with the sinking realization
that I’d lost you.
But it’d taken a moment
for me to finally remember
that I’d lost you
a long long time ago,
and that this 
heart dropping,
knees weakening,
stomach churning,
loss of breath,
loss of appetite,
was nothing new. 

 

With these kind of things, it’s always different for everyone: The moment of realization when a loved one has died. My best friend told me that it hadn’t hit her until the night before the funeral. For me, it was during the wake. My youngest cousin, and his youngest grandchild stood next to me by the fire, (in our culture, we burn fake money and gold/silver colored papers for the deceased by a fireplace next to the coffin) and stared worriedly at our grandfather. He was twelve years old, and while he possessed a mild form of mental retardation, I knew he could tell that something was wrong with grandpa. This whole time, he’d been trailing behind his brother or the rest of us, but at that moment, he wandered alone to the coffin, where our grandpa laid peacefully. He looked at me and asked, “Is grandpa okay?” 
I walked over, in front of curious guests, and sobbing relatives and strung my arm along his shoulders. 
“He’s alright now.” I whispered, partly because I didn’t know what I was suppose to say in situations like these.
I realized I didn’t sound convincing enough, when his eyebrows furrowed, and his frown became evident. 
“He’s sleeping.” I finally murmured. 
He finally broke his long gaze from the body and returned to his seat behind his parents. Then he began to cry silently to himself. I realized how aware I had been of those around me. I suppose it was my own defense mechanism. I didn’t want to think of myself, but rather observe those around me. My grandmother, who sat next to me, was inconsolable. My mother was praying with a strange woman to the far right corner, while my aunts sobbed loudly in the distance. The room was filled with burning incense and a low hum that played through the speakers; a melancholy chant of some sort. My grandmother stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned to whisper gently in my ear.
“Say goodbye to your grandfather,” she said in tortured Thaisanese. 
Everyone had been seated, and the ceremony was wrapping up. The flowers were being taken down hastily by the careless employees and it was my turn to get up. I walked swiftly in my new black flats and felt the wind knock out of me, as I tried to kneel down on the cushions placed before me. The traditional thing to do was to kneel, pray, and plant incense in this large kettle-like urn, before approaching the coffin. I steadied myself, feeling the eyes behind me, and made my way towards my grandpa, the man who carried me up the stairs, took me to street fairs, and picked me up from school every single afternoon when I was a child. The man I loved so dearly, lying there so cold in front of my tear stained eyes. I whispered goodbye, as an unsettling silence met my response. 
For me, that was the moment I realized what I’d lost. 

Her wispy hair gently brushes
the back of my hand,
as she smiles so brightly
without a care in the world.

She laughs like the sea, 
and cries like the waves,
beautiful in its synchronicity.
Her eyebrows, dark as coal,
furrow when they see me hurt.

The grass tickle the backs of our necks,
and the sun warms our pale faces.
“What a beautiful Friday,” she whispers.  
“What a beautiful world.” I agree.