Never in my short life had I fully comprehended the true meaning of death. I didn’t have to; I was an innocent four year old girl. I had no reason to ever think twice about it. My family was young; my parent’s didn’t have a full decade married yet, and they were happy and youthful. I was happy with them, but I saw the changes death made.
My grandmother was as close as I got to understanding death, though I hardly knew her, and when she died I was curious instead of sad. It was a dreary day. I remember sitting on the balcony of my grandmother's house, while people in white put her on a gurney and took her out of her room. She was still sleeping and she didn’t move. I was two at the time, and I didn’t miss her when they told me that she wasn’t coming back. I was only confused. It’s the only memory of her that I can remember.
Her death didn‘t matter to me, it didn‘t impact me in the slightest, though I did hear my mom cry whenever I was up to go potty at night. I was more interested in the future. I started to get eager to do grown-up things like my mom, mostly to remind her that I was still hear and I wanted all of her attention and her smiles. For example, I wanted to stay up all night. I wanted to be an adult and be just like her so I could meet a boy just like my dad, and live my happily ever after just like in my fairy tales. I was prepared for all of it, for the perfect future, but it never came.
No, I never knew the true meaning of death this young, and when I came home from my very first sleepover to tell my mom all about it, I couldn’t, because she wasn’t there and dad was on the stairs crying. Dad ignored me when I asked him what was wrong, so I looked for my mom to ask her what was wrong. I was a big girl now, and I could take it. I could take anything.
I went back to dad and asked him where mom was, he cried harder, but I stayed calm knowing that soon he would stop scaring me and mom would come home so I could tell her about my night. “She went to heaven” dad said, hands in his face trying to hide the tears, dad didn’t like crying.
I smiled, finally getting somewhere. “When is she coming back?” I asked.
“She can’t come back” he said in a whisper. I frowned and put my hands on my hips.
“Then let’s go get her” I said simply, dad only laughed at me. It was a bleak, harsh laugh that sent a shiver up my spine.
I still didn’t understand days later, when dad put my things in a bag, as I watched him from my bed. Nor did I understand when that same day he took me to a place full of children, with the worn pain of adults upon their faces, and then left me there, on my own. I waited for him patiently but he didn’t come back and something was wrong with my heart; it hurt too much.
When I finally did understand what death meant to me, years later, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t demand to be taken to my mother’s grave or to look for my father. I knew that once he found whoever took my mom from us, he would come back and get me, like he promised. I just hoped I would never lose faith in that. I hoped that I wouldn’t hate him like the other kids hate their birth parents. It was really hard to believe in him, but I think I managed. I think.
