I never knew that for all this while, I actually carried a vintage picture of my late grandma all along with me. It was taken on August 1985. It knocked me recently upon joining Facebook group created by one of my cousin called “PROUD TO BE CUCU MAI…” Mai actually taken from part of my grandma’s name, Maiketijah. Her full name is Dayang Maiketijah. That FB group did not own the exact profile picture of my granny. Somehow deep in my subconscious lingers the thought that I might actually have one. So I searched into my secret stash of a box and among the crappy of the stuff, they it is…the diamond of it all…her picture. I did not remember when did I have it, but I might somehow though unregistered in my brain, took this with me during my diploma year.
So I uploaded the picture and share it with the group. To my surprise, they sincerely appreciate it very much and it spurred the reminiscent of her life story. I wrote about the story of her not so long ago. Well that story actually harbored the last piece of my insanity and humane disposition. I actually cried uncontrollably while writing it, I couldn’t see the keyboard while typing it. Damn that is the last time I cried. I know some people are sensitive and cry whenever they wanted it, especially in those heart-wrenching stories of drama. I did cry once, to Jibeuro ‘The Way Home’, the story that sparked my mind of my late granny which upon writing about it made me cried again.
It’s not I am too proud not to cry, but I am unable to, my sensitive and thoughtful mind have long left me. I can’t be sad for myself neither to anyone. But I did feel sometimes, sorry for someone’s lost and their grief. I am not that mean of a being...on second thought, I am. I never believe that emotional expression of sorrow really solve anything, thus my lacrimal gland atrophied.
But if you worry that doing something may break my heart and expecting me to walk under the black cloud, balling to a corner of a darkened room, I am not that. So you can spare yourself a trouble, you don’t have to be charitable to let me be the last one to know if you are doing something you think may break my heart. Don’t beat yourself up, thinking that I’ll care too much for you. I can’t cry with you but I might help get you a tissue, still you have to pay for it. Still I got anger and fury. Maybe I am not in a capacity to be physically aggressive, but being me, to get my silent treatment is one hell of a thing. So yeah, try! Time-tested and work every time. Testimonials? Ask those people around me.
But when it come to my Babushka, she’s my sweetest downpour. She’s my Achilles tendon. She’s my funnybone. She brings pain of lump to my throat and made me try harder suppressing the willing to pool my tear. She nicked my heart everytime.
It’s her…my Babushka…and I’m her Ipin. Damn, I’m so freaking human after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment