Have you ever had this overwhelming urge to do something?
Like your life won’t be complete unless you do it? That’s how I feel most days
when I get a chunk of writing done. I don’t know why I’m like this; I don’t
know that I want to know. I like how I am. But sometimes my fingers just start
burning if I can’t get my thoughts or feelings down on paper (or Word.) The
sounds of the keys typing brings me peace. Like right now, I’m sitting with my
head back against the chair and my eyes closed as I type this, thinking about
how nice it is hearing the keys go up and down. If I could type on a typewriter
and easily import it into Word, I would.
Yes, the sounds of the keys give me peace. It’s the best
kind of therapy. You see, there is no one judging you. The computer screen doesn’t
give you any looks of sadness, sympathy, hatred, agony - nothing. It just is. Sometimes
we have thoughts we are too scared to vocalize, or we are too afraid to hurt a friend's
feelings. So what do we do? Well the lucky ones let it out in some way while; the others
bottle it up.
But this, this is my slice of heaven. Now you might wonder
why I’m talking about this. Well, it’s because of the story I wrote about
Christmas. You see, I don’t deal with grief well. The previous encounters with
death I’ve had in my short life, I didn’t accept or cope, I held onto my pain,
my anger, my sadness, and I let it devour me. It consumed me from the inside
until it had nowhere to go. I couldn’t let that happen again. I didn’t like
being sad and blah. I didn’t want one man’s death to mean that yet again I
would run and hide from the world. So this time I honored him.
My grandpa passed away on May 31st, only 140 days
ago. I can still close my eyes and smell the air in the room the night he died.
I can see his body. I can see everything. I can feel my heart breaking, feel the tears I
wept. But I also remember his life, his voice, his laugh, and his amazing wisdom. He
made me promise on December 29th that I would not let his illness
consume me. That I would be strong for my mom and grandma. That I would be the
fighter and do good. So when he asked me to write a story about someone in
Ireland to represent my Irish roots (to offset my Arabic ones of Blood Purple’s
people) I decided then that instead of being lost in death I would celebrate
A few years back I worked on his Ancestry and I traced his
roots through time. The characters in “Bud’s Christmas Wish” include names
taken from my lineage. This short Christmas story meant more to me because it’s
how I honored my grandfather and how I said goodbye to him. I loved him for all
that he was for me, and I still feel him with me. I know he is here now,
standing behind me, watching and helping me. He’ll always be in my heart,
always with my spirit.
Fathers and Grandfathers mean so much to daughters. I know without
these men in my life I’d be nowhere near what I am today. So, at 140 days from
the saddest moment in my life, I sit here smiling. Because writing has helped me
mourn the loss of a family member and helped me honor him in the same moment.
Without writing I’d be lost.
Bud's Christmas Wish
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