Bublessness

[15th August 2023, home, the day after my brother left for higher studies.]

Grief shows up in the strangest of places, in the weirdest of ways.

It didn’t hurt to say bye to bubs at the airport, but soaking three sets of almonds today instead of four made me sob.

Six dining chairs are enough for all of us now. No need for the blue swivelly chair to be awkwardly wedged in at the corner of the dining table anymore, nor for the mismatched seventh placemat to jostle for space in between the others on the table.

This room is mine now. I have my own room for the first time in my life.

Our ‘his & hers’ set of perfumes now has a gaping hole.

The shoe rack has enough space for all my current footwear now.

Last night I still said a mental “Good night, bubs” to the pillow on my right.

I wiped my eye on my t-shirt sleeve. It left a heart-shaped stain.

A few weeks back I’d asked bubs how it had felt when I first left home to go to college. He said he remembered going to the bathroom and crying. And seven years later, here I am, doing the same.

I’d read somewhere that grief is just love that has no place to go. I felt a physical weight in my chest at that thought, and the tears streamed out faster.

I emerged from the bathroom eventually, and time started to flow again. I was vaguely surprised to see that everything was exactly the same as I’d left it — how could it be, when my world had just changed so much?

I’d been pretending to wail about bubs leaving for months now, but none of that anticipatory grief actually prepared me for this absolute attack of bublessness.

Mom came to my (my) room to call me to help in the kitchen. I’m having a sadboi moment, I said. You’ve just got to stay busy, she said, come help. She was kind enough to shut the door and leave me to my writing though. I cried again.

To me, grief has always been a private affair, something to be acknowledged and dealt with in solitude. I hide away, feel the feelings, cry the tears, dry the tears, and walk back out into public all neat and put-together. Walls up, smooth unruffled exterior, as though nothing happened. Ready to face whatever’s next. (Or maybe just desperately hoping for a distraction.)

Kindness is the kryptonite to my walls. My (fragile?) fortress falls like a castle of cards the moment I hear a “Hey, are you okay?”

No I’m not, there goes my control, my guard has shattered, the tears are falling faster than I can catch them, I’m sinking into a ball, oh what have you done?

And then we repeat.

I’m glad today’s a holiday. I’m grateful for the time and space to sit at my (my) bay window and write this (with multiple breaks to unblur my vision). I’m glad I chose to address the grief, to confront it head-on the moment I felt it coming instead of drowning it in busy-ness as I normally would. Yay, proud of myself :)

Okay I feel better. I know the grief will come in waves, and I’ll be here to flow with them :)