For all the time I've spent fantasizing about this day coming to fruition, why is it now that it presents itself in a problematic manner? I have longed for the day I could bid this place farewell, yet somehow I feel the weight of responsibility I no longer have tethered to me, wrapping itself around my legs and dragging me back into this shit-show of a house. I've dreamt about leaving this place since the ripe age of sixteen, but as with most decisions I've made in my life, the guilt of my selfishness has come to drown me, amongst the sorrow and trauma that still hold this 'home' significant to my life. Although, looking back, I don't believe every memory here is inherently bad.
I can recollect rushing in after school, dying to eat my parents cooking, then being able to engage in play afterwards; I used to relish the thought of weekends and being able to do whatever I wanted. That all ended soon enough, though. The emphasis of 'responsibility' parents embed within the eldest sibling is viewed to them as imperative in order for them to 'get by'. It's mesmerising how they thought they were doing me a favour, and yet here I am, twenty-two years later, finally left all on my own, all my siblings grown and entering successful careers, despite the loss of their parents. I dont regret caring for them, however, I do regret not making a life and name for myself, for even now, I am limited as to what I can do, without bearing the weight of the guilt that enevlops me for leaving my 'successful' family, to fend for themselves...
So he gently placed himself onto the rusted, half-black bench, away from all the fuss. It was so easy for his grief to feel overshadowed by the others in his family during events like these. There was always someone claiming to know her ‘better’ or someone to share a fact or funny story he’d never heard of before. It made him wonder if he even knew who ‘she’ was this whole time. Suddenly, someone he didn’t seem to recognise came and sat next to him on the bench, he kept his eyes fixated on his shoes, hoping to not have to scrutinise their facial features or even bother conversing. They just sat with you in silence for a while, until their voice inevitably (and spontaneously) broke the tranquility
“It’s so easy to hold value to those you hold dear, but when you take a step back and listen to those around you share their experiences with the same person, you realise, no one on this Earth is an angel. That’s not what was intended. The value of the person you’re grieving, originates from the moral pedestal you place them upon, good or bad.” She stated, whilst staring over to him for approval
“And who were you to her exactly?” He snapped back
“Oh you wouldn’t know— people lead more than one life simultaneously without knowing it, even if you wanted me to, I don’t fall into your world, and I never will, I just wanted to share my retrospective on death. I can assure you, no matter what path you walk in this life, nothing will ever always be as it seems. Good luck to you.” She briskly stands up, opens her black parasol, and walks away from the memorial, never to be seen again.
