My eyes swell nearly shut and they burn as I try to open them now to stare at the laptop screen in front of me. The tears on my cheeks have long past dried and have left my skin stiff, making it harder for me to blink. The numbness in my chest ebbs away, revealing the pain which I quickly cover with nothing, like white paint on a black canvas. To make it clear. Pristine. Perfect. Pretend that nothing’s wrong as I look around our house. Her house. The retro-vintage yellow paint in the stairwell and my closet, the shag carpeting in the basement. There’s scrawled writing in the basement on the walls from when my mom was my age and I long to be her right now. To know her when she wasn’t quite so sick again.I have just found out my grandma’s dying. We live in her house and every where I look there’s another reminder of what I’m losing, what I guess I’ve already lost. I feel myself wanting to cut but not here. Not in her house.Her memory is too good for that.
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