Bloom

77. memories mixed with here and now

Zayn

When I was twenty three years old, my beloved grandmother had passed away unexpectedly. A lot of time was spent over at her house- my mum was too drained emotionally to take care of the things that were unimportant to her at that time. The house needed to be emptied as quick as possible so it could go up for sale, somebody needed to arrange the whole funeral, send the cards, somehow get the money for it somewhere.

Thinking back about that time- it was extremely hectic, extremely sad. Zephaniah had been five at that time and because I had no caregiver around that time yet, no woman who could take care of him, I brought him with me everywhere I went as I was trying my best to do every thing I could for my Mum, in order to lighten the burden she was taking with her upon her shoulders.

Zephaniah had felt the heaviness of all emotions around that time way too well- he was exhausted by the end of the day, every single day until the funeral. He had been extremely quiet, even quieter than he normally was. His complexed mind and beautiful eyes observing everything around him.

He understood the emotions perfectly fine, he sensed everything. However, he didn't understand why she was gone, out of all sudden. Sometimes, when we were lying in bed at the end of the day, he would ask me these questions that always teared me up.

His thinking was so deep, why did a five years old bother?

I didn't know it had triggered this much, when it came to his autism. When the funeral came, I had taken Zephaniah with me- I had no other option. The atmosphere was really heavy, especially for him- he was a really sensitive little boy.

He constantly crawled against me, panicking when I accidentally let go of him.

My family was in a rush- even on the funeral itself there were still so many things that needed to be settled. There was this small, beautiful room where the coffin was, a photo present. I asked my aunt; is the coffin closed fully? I knew Zephaniah wouldn't be able to handle it, emotionally, to see her like that.

My aunt had looked at me, I could tell she was distressed. She said yes, so I took Zephaniah's hand in mine and entered the small room after people I didn't quite know, had taken their time to say their last goodbyes to her.

I had turned to my little boy and told him specifically that the coffin, where grandmother was, would be there, but it would be closed so he wouldn't see her. I had asked him if he wanted to see the coffin to say goodbye to her- I still remember his wide, big eyes, his face nodding slowly while the grip onto my hand became tighter.

I took him inside. The coffin wasn't closed.

Zephaniah didn't understand the situation; he stood still, perplexed. His big eyes lingered on my grandmother- he didn't say anything. I mentally scolded my aunt; I was furious. She knew I had been there with my little boy at that time. Why had she lied?

I had to lift him up in order to get him out of his frozen spot. He hadn't said a word- his eyes still wide, small, pink lips parted. I told him that I was sorry- I didn't know. Eventually, when the service began, Zephaniah started whistling.

At first it was soft, but when they rolled the coffin inside the church, it became louder and louder. People had looked up at him, then at me. Couldn't you keep that, disrespecting child, quiet?

I tried, I tried so hard to keep him quiet, but it only became worse. He whistled harder and harder, faster and louder- he didn't stop. That's when he broke- his hands flapped rapidly, his eyelids blinking faster than ever. He started screaming, he started hitting, kicking, biting. Himself- but me as well.

My heart thumped louder than it had ever done before- the judging looks on people's faces, the cursing, the nudging against me because my child was being so extremely disrespectful on a funeral.