My sister is 2 years younger than me, but she'd never grieved as much as I did when my grandfather and greatgrandfather died. I found it very strange. Didn't they treat us all the same? How could you not weep for such sorrow? How could you not shed some tears for the dying man on the bed?

I admit, even writing about it sucks. Especially about the death of my greatgrandfather. It was possibly the greatest loss I've ever lived through. I don't think I've written about him before. I think he only deserves to be mentioned after years of dissappearance.

Good god, if I start crying right now, I'm so sorry.

My greatgrandfather was the greatest figure in my life. I admired him and I loved him very much. Even if he lived miles away in Malacca, I still loved him; I loved him more than anyone related to me. It's weird I guess. He was more of a grandfather to me than my grandfather was, much more of a father to me than my father was. That time I believed no one ever loved me. Only he did. I loved him more than anything in the world, and I was his favourite greatgrandchild. I remembered he turned up in my grandmother's house in Woodlands without any announcement or whatsoever, and he brought me cherries. I loved his cherries. Well actually, I don't really fancy cherries, but I pretended to like them, and I licked them a lot because he brought them all the way here. I also remembered he took his bike to some shop in his kampong to buy us crackers. Oh wow, remembering things is tough. I don't recall too many things now. I remember his death more though.

When my mother told me that he had passed away, right after I got home for school, was the devastating news I've ever received. I've never told her I loved him that much. I didn't know why she bothered telling me. I suppose she always knew that he loved me a lot. I said to my mum in the most uncaring way, 'ok' and I went to my room.

I wept and wept and wept into the very pillow I'm holding right now. I don't think I've cried that much in my life. I was 8 years old I think, and I could still remember every detail. I skipped school the next day, and went to Malacca, to his kampong. I wore a yellow baju kurung and a yellow tudung. I stared into space and felt very weird inside. I couldn't cry because I didn't want anyone to see. I didn't want anyone to know how it was for me. So there I was, an 8 year old girl thinking I was the one who should've died. I never thought he could die. To my eyes, he was immortal. It was so sudden. I don't even know how he died, even now. He was immortal, he was immortal.

I saw his body and he was already dressed. I think I was stoning. I didn't like people staring at him. I followed them to the graveyard. While they were digging, I stood beside his casket, beside his unmoving body. They buried him, and I saw little girls screaming. One of them didn't even love him as much as I did. She cried because the other girl did. She barely knew him. I was older than any of them. And then as I saw the soil piling in, it dawned upon me, this is it, I'm never going to see that face again. I'll never get to talk to him again, I'll never see him on his bike again, he'll never buy me cherries again. I'll never love anyone again.

And I started crying.

It was horrible.

It was so horrible.

We marched back to the house, and I felt so empty inside. They cooked curry. They had a feast.
I hated them.
I hate them still.
I hate them for not grieving. Screw their smiley faces. I hated them. I despised them for laughing so loudly as if nothing ever happened. I hated the women for taking off their tudungs and laughing at horrible jokes. I hated the food, I hated the ambience.
I was staring again. He was gone, forever.

Still weeks passed, I stared into the atmosphere as though he was there. I wish he was. I had vivid dreams about him.

That's all I recall. I suppose I am and grieved by this post.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære
his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost.

Funny enough, I sing that song often. It's a mourning song.