Band-aids

There are phases of grief. And loss. Phases that we often try to skip to keep up with the pace of the world around us.

A friend had fondly told me today — "Prero, you never gave yourself the time. You put a bandaid on it." Well. True that, Prero.

I was dreading Facebook and Google Photo memories at this time of the year. I knew it'd be difficult. I was preparing myself with a mid-week break, armed with my favourite people in the world by me. Oh boy, I was preparing. And yet, when today I did stumble upon the dreaded memories, they did not come with their usual pain and tears. Like they always had.

This time, they came with a lightness. They came with soft laughter, a remembrance of good times, and a silent acknowledgement of how far I had come, and how, hopefully, it was all for the best. There was melancholia. A lot of it. But sans the pain.

Guess the numerous layers of bandaid might have made recovery a little slower, but they did come through after all.

Here's a little ode to a time when I perhaps didn't understand what grief meant, even when I was walking through it for the first time. The first of many firsts.