The Thing About Death

Losing someone you love is not easy. In all of history, it never has been.

My nana always had a thing for antiques. She loved anything old. We would always joke and call her a hoarder, but the joke is less funny now that she's gone and I was now cleaning out her house full of the things from her hobby that she defended so passionately. I would leap to her defense, normally, because she would always leap to mine whenever my family poked fun at my hobbies. I guess that's why she left me all of the junk from her many years of estate sales and thrift stores. So now, there I was, picking through the rubble of my late Alzheimers-ridden nana's stash.

Out of all of the things to do on a Friday morning, this is the absolute last thing on my list behind dropping dead myself. I wanted to be in my bed to grieve. I wanted to pretend that this entire thing isn't happening, that when I walk downstairs to my nana's living room that she'll be there to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and a bear hug from her soft, wrinkly arms, followed by a very affectionate "hey, sugar." I wanted Nana. Instead, I got dusty, rusty, no good junk. I waded through the sea of old furniture to the back of the guest room that was now basically a storage closet to a stack of boxes. I figured it would be the easiest thing to start with and would take the least amount of physical and emotional effort on my part. I quickly clip my hair back and start haphazardly digging.

I pulled out a few silver candlesticks, some weird looking doll that looked like it would haunt my dreams, and some porcelain trinkets that I was surprised hadn't been accidentally crushed in the box under the hard metals. After I had sorted a majority of the items in the box into what could be kept and sold, I looked back in the box and saw an old camera. The lens was cracked, so I knew it wasn't going to be of any use to me. I went to place the camera in the trash pile when I remembered something my nana had said to me before about these things; she told me that people are a sucker for old pictures. If you develop old film, no matter what it is, most antique nuts would buy it no questions asked. I popped open the part of the camera where the film roll would be and, sure enough, there one was.

I quickly put the roll of film in my coat pocket and threw the camera in the trash pile where it belonged. After a couple more hours of apprehensive digging, I called it quits for the day and headed to my car to drive to the nearest Walgreens. I sent the film out to be developed, and for the next week and a half I kept digging through the junkyard that was Nana's house. Every time I went, I could feel the heaviness of the house. It was almost as if the building itself was grieving her loss. The rooms were dark, the wood seemed to sag, the dust seemed to had settled rather quickly. Every day I sat on my nana's bed for hours weeping. Why is she gone? And why did she have to die not knowing who I was? What kind of cruel joke was it that she had to forget me and then leave me with all of her things, reminding me that she left her belongings to someone she couldn't even remember they raised? The depression in that house was palpable. I didn't want to be there, but because the world hated me, I was now forced to spend every day in that living hell until it was cleaned up.

After that week and a half was up, I got a call from the Walgreens saying that the film from Nana's camera was developed and I could come and pick up the prints. Early the next morning on my way to Nana's, I dropped by and picked everything up. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of that house again. I put the car in park and sighed. I don't think I was even sad anymore, just emotionally and physically drained. Without thinking, I guess to kill time before having to traverse the maze of antiques again, I grabbed the Walgreens envelope and opened it up. I pulled out the pictures and started looking through them. They were a little faded, I guess because of the age of the film, but they were still recognizable. There was a picture of the skyline over the hills in her backyard, a couple pictures of trees, one of an antique cabinet that I cleaned out the day before. it was a big stack of photos, so I didn't want to look through every single one of them if they were all pointless. I told myself that I would look at one more and then I would go inside. As I revealed the next picture, my breath hitched in my throat.

It was me.

It was us.

It was a picture of us in front of the house the day she bought it. It was right after my papa, her husband, died. I was eight years old. She was sixty five. Just fifteen years ago.

I looked up at the house in front of me, and then back to the picture. I could feel the tightness in my chest and the tears in my eyes threatening to jump out. I revealed the next picture and began to weep. It was Nana and I in the living room on my tenth birthday. She and I had matching party hats on. I remember so vividly her laugh when I screamed at the bike in our living room that day. I miss her laugh.

I held the pictures close to my chest, heaving with heavy sobs. I missed her so deeply. I didn't want the house, I didn't want the antiques, I didn't want the pictures. I wanted her. I wanted Nana. At the same time, though, these pictures were a reminder that deep down, Nana knew me. She knew who I was. Even if she didn't remember, she knew. And she loved me. Ever since I was younger, she loved me. Her and Papa did. They still do. Wherever they are, they still do. I'm sure that's why I found those pictures. She wanted me to know.

The thing about death is that it is never easy. Even so, it reminds you that you're allowed to feel love and sadness at the same time. You're allowed all of the feelings. I had all of the feelings that day.

So, here I am now, ten years later at Nana's Antiques set up in that same house, the picture of us in front of it mounted by the door with the old film camera. I love when people ask me about it. This story never gets old, so thank you for asking. Now, can I show you around?