Those Delicate Moments

I had never seen a dead person up close before. Let alone someone I knew, someone who had shaped my life. I stood over her for half an hour since she took her last breath, meticulously observing the colors fading away one by one from the garment that had dressed her soul for seventy-six years.

Everyone around me thinks I am calm and composed. That's how I appear, I suppose. However, no one can feel the beats of my heart and the swirling fear provoked by her image. It's a fear that extends far beyond the present moment. As I look at her, I see my own death, the death of all of us. I see decay, illness, suffering, the unexpected, awaiting us around the next corner, and the literal insignificance of our mortality. If death has substance, it must be laughing at us. How can we be one of the most intelligent species on the planet and ignore the most certain event of our lives? How, no matter what happens, whatever we do, we will have to decide whether we prefer to become ashes or organic nourishment.

The funeral home is on its way to take her body. No one can bear to sit next to her for too long. Those who honored us with their presence take care to keep themselves occupied with something. There is an endless awkwardness. The reactions of those who chose to say their "final goodbye" can be summarized as follows: first, they shed some tears, and then they return to their comfortable positions.

My grandmother lived for others. I can never remember her making a decision based on her own interests or even for her own pleasure. Her decisions revolved around us and our needs. I stroke her dehydrated hands and think that, along with my grandmother, the generation of obligatory selflessness is gradually fading away. Not that I don't tremble at the exact opposite, the likely scenario of us becoming indifferent in an attempt to react against entrenched beliefs of centuries, but at least we are exploring other options.

What would my grandmother have been if she hadn't been my grandfather's devotee? Once I asked her if she had ever felt the desire to study or pursue a profession, and she replied, "When I was young, I dreamed of sewing clothes, my dear, of having a space and sewing!" In the end, she cheerfully patched the holes in my grandfather's underwear and generally mended all our clothes.

They called me to step outside the room for a while and interact with the relatives, but I didn't want to. Death is rarely an invited guest, and I feel honored that we just got introduced. Even so, through my grandmother, I can briefly glimpse the contrast between life and death. My existential anxiety immobilizes me, heightens my senses. I observe how eagerly everyone anticipates its passing. My grandmother will soon leave this house forever, and instead of whispering a few words to her, they keep themselves busy and feign responsibility. I hear many foolish conversations in the living room about the memorial, the grave, the flowers, and the priest they prefer to perform the ceremony. And while they discuss all these matters, they drink tea from the porcelain teapot that my mother kept for formal occasions. On the other hand, I haven't stopped thinking that you never know if her spirit, or rather, to put it better, her liberated soul, longs for a fearless touch and the warmth of a few heartfelt words, right at this moment.

I find it inconceivable for everything to die, which fills me with anxiety about the unknown of death. It is impossible for all this madness of life to go to waste, with so much pain shaping our soul, without destination or meaning. My mind cannot contain it. However, because the mystery of death surpasses me, I shudder at the idea that only through death will I learn. Meanwhile, nothing in the structure of our society favors productive negotiation with death. Most of us rush to hide, as if by not looking it directly in the eyes, it will do us the favor of not snatching us with its claws.

Two cold men carried her like a sack down the stairs. They wrapped her in a sheet and placed her in their long hearse. She is now heading towards a mortuary fridge, while here at home we discuss in a civilized manner how kind, caring, and pleasant my grandmother was. My father chose a luxurious coffin for his mother, with dimensions of 1.90x0.59x0.35 meters, eight millimeters thick, a lid with an external cross, glossy cherry color, made of solid wood, constructed according to environmental practices.

The day of the funeral arrived, and the beautiful luxurious coffin was buried in the depths of the earth. Again, that sensation came, that aggressive terror that I do not want to die. Life is so beautiful. I love mistakes, but I love even more the ignorance that becomes consciousness. I adore nature, love, and even the white hairs that have just started to grow on my temples. What would I give to keep my flesh eternal, to touch, to taste, to laugh out loud, to embrace, to kiss, but I complain in vain. Who am I to protest against the gods and the predetermined? Despite our will, at any given moment, we will be stripped naked, leaving behind our familiar skin.

No one had anything bad to say about her. When you never give anyone a chance, they can't accuse you of much, except if they are spiteful. Besides, we can't escape from them. During the meal that followed the funeral, no stories were shared about her. And then suddenly, I felt something very strange, that my grandmother never knew herself. How well did we think we knew her? This last thought slapped me so hard that it multiplied my grief. Now I mourned for the grandmother I knew and at the same time for the one I didn't know. Could it be that death has many faces, and particularly insidious ones, like convincing you to live with the highly tempting assurance of borrowed beliefs? My grandmother's funeral was impersonal, and I mention this with a lot of regrets. The worst part is that, during my brief nostalgic flashbacks, I remembered that her sacrifices were confined to the one-way road of duties. In my father's proper upbringing, in a clean home, and in a pot full of freshly cooked food. In the meantime, she wasted her time in front of the idiot box. It doesn't seem at all unlikely to me that her high blood pressure, unexplained dizziness, neck pain, diabetes, and ultimately the cancer that consumed her within three months were part of a well-planned conspiracy for her well-being. My grandmother was never healthy, and this realization makes me suspect that our bodies are intimately connected to our emotions and repressed desires.

I returned to my home. I lay on the couch, curled up in a fetal position, and closed my eyes. It was three in the afternoon, July, and the heat was suffocating. I couldn't fit inside my own body. I got up in an attempt to free myself, placed the gigantic fan in front of me, changed sides, and relaxed. I had sunk into an infinitely sweet sleep when I was interrupted by a touch that gradually became an annoying poke. Whoever was trying to wake me up had irritated me beyond measure.

"My dear girl, come on, you need to get up, a package has arrived, and you need to sign for it. I'm sorry for waking you up so suddenly, but the person is waiting at the door."

I panicked to the point where I jumped up so abruptly that I frightened her.

"What happened, my dear, were you having a nightmare?"

"Grandma..."

"Come on, get up, the delivery guy is outside and waiting. Come on, sweety!"

I got up stumbling and with my gaze fixed on my grandmother, I signed for the package. I couldn't remember what I had ordered, nor did I care. Nothing could convince me that the spacetime I was in, was reality. Every emotion, thought, association, image was real. I felt it in my skin, my senses, and my heart.

And yet, I had awakened. I was in vacations in my village Arta. In our stone traditional house, with the half-collapsed wood-burning stove and the chickens in the back yard. My grandmother was stirring the coffee in our traditional greek style. I hadn't even asked her for it, and she was already preparing it for me.

"Grandma?"

"Yes my sweetheart" she replied, with her worn-out apron wrapped around her plump waist, which I loved pinching.

"Come sit with me. I want to tell you about the dream I had earlier. It was so vivid!"

"The coffee is ready, too. Go on, I'm listening."

I started improvising, immersed in her vanished dream.

"You were the finest dressmaker in the region, around the age of twenty-five. You had found a shop in a prime location, and the display window showcasing the outfits you had sewed, attracted even the most picky girls in the neighborhood. You had long blond hair and a star-like silhouette. You were both creative and meticulous in the clothes you sewed. You infused them with so much love that people from distant villages started coming. The commercially-made garments couldn't compare to your creations. You would measure them, have conversations, understand their expectations. What can be compared to that?"

"Oh, my sweet Anna! What a beautiful dream!"

For my grandmother, her dream had become a forgotten old film that she barely recognized. While she enjoyed my dream she immediately returned to her domestic duties. But now I knew. I would forever cherish this dream I had just awakened from.