AMELIA JALLABAH, Staff Writer—It started with a prayer, you know the desperate kind. The one you prayed when grandmother was on her deathbed, her begging the world to kiss her cheeks one last time. One last time to dance with grandfather and smile as grandchildren tail each other around the house. The one you prayed on your knees soaking in your tears, asking God, whomever to render her a second chance, even though you questioned if God exists. You’ve never been the one to partake in religious acts. But when fear and desperation calls, you answer, you answer.
One day you’re in your room, sitting on your bed as you Google “ways not to be sad,” “how to live with the loss of a loved one,” “steps to overcoming grief.” And “how to remember a loved one.” You remembered when Grandma would make her famous apple pie with you by her side. As she whispers to you ways she thinks you can polish your life. She’s always been critical of your life. You reckon it is because she loves you. But also can’t help but feel it might be because of her upbringing.
You’ve always struggled with what path to take in life, and sometimes you do not have a place in the world. Grandma advised you to dance with the wind. You get a job right after high school as a waitress at a beat down restaurant with a pay worth less than a penny. You take night classes. Drive miles to a place you dare not call home. One day on your drive there, epiphany starts to choke you. You did not dance with the wind like grandma said you should. And for a while you thought you did. What did she even mean by that? Follow your dreams? Dream big? Those cliches? The world is not going to fix it’s eyes on you. The world is not going to care if you’re at the bottom of a pit sinking, skinking, sinking. Your kids are not going to ask you about your life. It is as interesting as water spilled on the floor. They are not going to come to you with questions when they hit puberty. You will be left for the world to grace upon and walk past.
You will begin to reconsider your choices until this point. And when the sun has set on you, the world is not going to remember you. Nor are your children or grandchildren, their memories of you will be left to drift into an abyss.
Amelia Jallabah, ‘23 is a Political Science major with a concentration in Narrative Journalism from Columbus, Ohio.