I remember sitting outside the hospital on the cold concrete curb, fiddling with an oak leaf and staring blankly into the parking lot. Suddenly, a single ant crosses my vision, tramping to its comrades and filing down their ant hill in uniform. Their marches thunder in my head, assembling their ranks to advance into the world. Facing their foes with valor, the soldiers race into the battlefield, the clanging of weapons and cries of pain. Soon bodies are littered across the land, the grass awash in crimson, miniature corpses holding their swords in cold dead grasps. My uncle's own battle was similar, yet his blood became infested with chemo, and every day his weapon was his will to survive. His soldiers in his immune system fought as his cancerous enemies invaded his organs, his thyroid, and his mind. It was hard to disconnect him from the fun-loving uncle who would throw me into the pool, or shove my birthday cake in my face, or teach me to hunt for the very first time into this thin, hyper-aged, balding man before me, who looked almost cyborg-ish with the tubes and IVs and monitors surrounding him. Just a few years after my grandma passed from heart failure, this was the second major death in my family. I never processed grief well; I would sit in silence and comfort my mother - who felt grief like one feels the sun on their skin during a summer in Phoenix- until I was alone in my room, staring at the ceiling, my phones fluorescent light temporarily blinding me before informing me that it was nearly 2:30 AM, and all at once I would feel everything. The choking, lung-crushing, heart-tearing emptiness that those you love leave upon their deaths. I silently let my tears rush down my face like a river hurriedly chasing its destination. I would only do this once, for I only needed a few spare hours of unaccompanied silence to truly feel the weight of my sadness. I have often been told that I am heartless, and cold, and callous, but in reality I have been forced to be strong in any given disaster so that my family may fall on me for stability. It is not that I don’t feel, it’s that I am capable of choosing when to feel and how much I can take. I feel the sadness, I just don’t show it. The mask I’ve crafted is perfectly capable of protecting me from the prejudices of my life by my peers. I hear them sometimes, both my uncle and my grandma. I hear my shrieking laughter echoing anytime I am near a pool, remembering how my uncle used to toss my around and we would splash in the water on cool summer days. I hear my grandmas approving whispers when I open her old recipe book to make birthday cakes for my family, remembering all the meticulous tricks she taught me in her kitchen when I was young. Though these deaths have been hard on me, they have taught me that the memories hold much more value than the grief. The past smiles and laughs and holidays spent together mean so much more than wallowing in the sadness of what could have bene if they lived a little longer. Death has made me optimistic, and hopeful, and willing to live everyday like it's my last. That way, when it's my time, my life simply won't flash before my eyes, but play out like a movie, showcasing all my adventures and heartbreaks. Everything that made my life worth living. When it's my time, I hope Death will be proud to take me.
