Even the Best of Us

Well, Mr. Logsdon, in the eternal words of Kanye West, "I'mma let you finish, but..." this is one of the most boring blog posts of all time. And by "boring," I mean "good golly, I suck at this blog post."

The style of my author, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, is as enjoyable to read as it is difficult to emulate. He writes with a personal flair, making it seem like a tale recounted to you personally. His prosaic style lends itself to casual reading, but it's not thick. It's light and descriptive, providing ample imagery without getting the reader bogged down in the minutia, but it has a weight to it: That is, it's meaningful; I don't say weight as in heavy reading - because, after all, I already noted that it's light - but rather that it has an effect that lingers in your mind after you finish the book, like a loitering teenager hanging around a store at closing time that you just can't bear to turn out because, after all, he really is pretty interesting. I don't foresee being able to replicate this effect of leaving a vestige in the reader's mind of the ideas I had meant to convey, but I shall do my best. That's all any of us can hope for, right?

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IF IT SEEMS AS IF I AM WRITING ON THIS SUBJECT WITH SOME RELUCTANCE, I MUST APOLOGIZE. I offer my sincerest apologies to you, reader, for I am attempting to recreate a scene that does not sit well in my mind, and although it will, no doubt, strike you differently than it does me, I hope that it conveys a fraction of the same emotion.

My grandmother was, without question, a wonderful woman, for as long as I can remember. She was fiercely stoic in her beliefs, and caring yet firm when the situation called for it. Her health had been cyclical for a number of years, modulating from poor to fair to fine to fair and once again to poor, in a seemingly endless and unequivocally painful circle of physical deterioration and medical rehabilitation. I recall clearly looking at her, alone in a hospital bed, and not comprehending the meaning of what I saw. With time, the image became clear to me, and I wept at the course nature took.

I remember having a dog named Tash, who was very dear to me. She was as loving as one could hope for in a dog, and I regret only being too young to accept the significance of her death. She passed away when I was young, perhaps four or five, and I shed many tears on her behalf, but at such an age, many tears are shed over many things, and the amount of sadness cannot be said to be in direct proportion of the sadness of the event that caused the tears.

Several years later, my uncle passed away while visiting from Arizona. It was very sudden, and again, I couldn't comprehend it. I was shocked at losing him, and although I was old enough to comprehend death, it still puzzled me. Life is so mysterious, and one can never truly unravel its enigmatic ways.

It is no small wonder, then, that when I got into the car one day in eighth grade on a snowy December afternoon, the conversation that transpired saddened me, but did not shock me. I had only just stepped into the car when Maya, my youngest sister, brazenly shouted the words I had expected but dreaded for so long.

"Grandma died."

In two words, I had had the wind knocked out of me, and I felt dizzy. I had expected this, but at the same time, I hadn't: I knew it was true, but I could never accept it. To this day, I don't think I've fully accepted it. The death of my grandmother still remains a pungent memory, and it's entirely possible this narrative will be nothing more than words once you hit the 'x' on your browser, but one day, this may happen to you, and to you I say this: Even the best of us must face the death of a loved one. It is an ordeal that all of us face, but you should take comfort in that. It is a universal ordeal, and with the recognition of that comes the realization that you mustn't despair, for, reader, even the best of us must undergo that time of trial.