When Grief is Beautiful

Have you ever noticed how the weather never seems to coincide with your mood? In movies and books, thunder and lightning predicted the coming of something ominous, a steady rain meant grief and mourning, and a beautiful sunny day meant happiness and peace. But not in real life. Because you know what? In real life, the weather doesn’t give a damn about your mood.

On the worst day of my life, there was no steady rain, or fog, or giant, dark cumulonimbus clouds. Instead, the sun was out, the sky was a perfect uninterrupted stretch of blue, and the temperature couldn’t have been a more wonderful 72 degrees in the middle of August, one of the few below 90 days we’ve had. On any other day, I might have gone for a stroll in the city with Bruce, one of our favorite places to spend time together. We would share an ice cream cone and talk about someday living in the city, maybe hit up the comic shop or bookstore.

Not today.

Because Bruce is gone.

And today is the worst day of my life.

I couldn’t remember most of happened after I woke up that morning. Maybe because I couldn’t have woken up, seeing as I didn’t get any sleep the night before. I must have looked terrible, but I didn’t bother with make up. My inevitable tears would only mess it up and make me look worse. But I did bother with my outfit. I wore a white and orange floral print dress that Bruce’s mother gave me on the first Christmas he and I celebrated as a couple. I’m not usually one to wear dresses, but Mrs. Brown had an eye for these things. The dress conformed to my curves perfectly, hiding my ugly knees but showing off my collarbone. When I slipped it on that morning, I noticed it felt a little big on me. Has my collarbone always been that noticeable?

The rest was a blur. The funeral procession, the sermon, the apologizing friends and relatives… I used to be a master at hiding pain and sadness. No matter what the situation, I could always muster a smile. It took Bruce a long time to know the difference between a genuine smile and a masking smile. He always used to tell me I should be an actress. “You’re so hard to read,” he’d say, and then peck my nose teasingly. I think I smiled at the memory. But it disappeared as soon as his cousins embraced me, tears in their eyes, and I was brought back to the service.

All I remember was that I was the only person not wearing black that day. Only Mrs. Brown understood why.

It wasn’t until we were back outside on that beautiful day, about to bury the casket by the tombstone that was already prepared, when I finally snapped. Everything I was unconsciously holding back since I got out of bed and slipped on the dress that was two sizes too big did I begin to scream and shout and beg and bawl. I’m not even sure what I was saying. Later, my father would tell me that it took four of Bruce’s cousins to prevent me from jumping into Bruce’s grave with him. He told me I was cursing Bruce out, cursing him for being dead and for leaving me, cursing him for making me love him too damn much.

I honestly don’t remember saying any of that.

When I was the only person left at Bruce’s grave, I was sitting on the freshly turned soil, not really caring that I was staining my dress and suddenly aware that my face was wet. Staring at the tombstone with Bruce’s name on it, I realized that’s the one thing it took for me to break my mask of calm. Even though I’ve heard his name being said over and over throughout the day, somehow, seeing his name engraved on that block of marble felt as if the tombstone itself had been dropped on me.

It seems silly, but I began to talk to the tombstone.

“I know you never believed in magic or ghosts or life after death… But it’s moments like this that make me realize why others believe in that stuff. We want to make excuses. We want to keep you around, so we make up lies and tell ourselves that you’re still with us, that you’re watching over us, that you’re in a better place. We need to keep you around. Because letting go, believing that you’re really gone is too painful. So we mask the pain with false hope.”

The tears started flowing again.

“But you’re not still around, are you, baby? You’re gone. You’re nothing but a body in box buried five feet under me.”

I felt the damp soil shift through my fingers and I could see my lap dotted with tiny wet spots.

“But… just in case you are still out there and you can somehow hear me, I want you to know…. That I really miss you.” I laughed before I could catch myself. “Oh the things you’d say to me if you could. You’d probably roll your eyes and pick me up off the ground and tell me to stop wasting my time.”

I chuckled. But the tears weren’t stopping.

“Oh Bruce. I used to ask myself what I’d do without you… I guess I’m about to find out, my love.”

I took a few deep breaths and threw my head back, towards the sky, eyes closed, and I let myself feel the cool breeze that was wafting through the cemetery. I stayed like that until the tears stop.

I kneeled beside the tombstone and kissed the top of the marble block. It was cold against my lips and no substitute for the warmth of Bruce’s, but it would have to do. “But don’t you worry, sweetie,” I whispered. “I’m going to be alright.”

I stood up and my eyes lingered on Bruce’s engraved name a moment longer before finally turning my back on it. I didn’t take two steps before I felt a rain drop land on my nose. Scanning the sky, I saw giant, dark cumulonimbus clouds hide that perfect stretch of blue and within seconds, steady rain showers began to cascade around me.

I laughed again, the rain mixing with my tears. I was right; the weather doesn’t give a damn about your mood….  

The Info Zombie Podcast

Hey everyone! So, I haven't posted in while but I got some exciting news to share. I was  a guest speaker on The Info Zombie podcast with host Carl Boehm. Please check out his site and give this podcast a listen!

http://www.theinfozombie.com/2012/08/info-zombie-podcast-07-yenny-coll.html

Soundless Scream

We were tired of sitting around the apartment, staring at the sheer white walls, doing nothing. Well, nothing beyond breathing and sharing the occasional laugh, anyway. It wasn’t until Prim, my roommate, my best friend since grade school, and my uncertified shrink, suggested we trade our PJs for some jeans, and grab breakfast at the corner café we always go to when the fridge is empty.

May as well, I told her. Although we really should buy groceries. Rent was due in a few days and that’s NYC rent we’re talking. Translation: not cheap. After rent, it would be a few days before grocery money became available. But on a gloomy and uneventful day like today, those rainy days where you couldn’t really tell fog from smog, I could go for a bagel and 99 cent coffee.

Sam’s Café, a quaint little spot two blocks from the apartment on Delancy, the only place on the Lower East Side where you could drink your coffee in peace, was empty when we got there. Prim and I liked it that way. Sam wasn’t in that day; Sean, a cute recent high school grad who wasted no time in telling us he got into Hunter College, waited on us instead.  We smiled and nodded our heads and congratulated him as good costumers should do. Last time Prim and I saw Sean, he was still working on growing his beard out; we were surprised that the peach fuzz had long since been replaced with a full mustache.

Sean brought us our coffee and bagels and we forked over five bucks. After he dropped the change on our table, he disappeared into the kitchen.

In his absence, Prim and I briefly discussed Sean’s newfound bushy lip. Bizarre; we agreed he should shave it immediately and grow a beard instead. The conversation then turned to hair in general and for a while we wondered what it would be like to have a fully-grown Karl Marx beard. Do men groom those things? we wondered. Speaking of Karl Marx, the conversation turned to a paper for a political science course we were both taking that summer. When was it due again? We decided it would be a good idea to get started after brunch.

That’s when it happened. Prim and I became increasingly aware of how quiet it had grown at Sam’s. Even the regular clanging of utensils and the sound of running tap water had ceased. We called out for Sean, and heard nothing but our own voices echoing. We paused, waiting for a sign of life to emanate from behind the scarlet swinging door. When nothing came, Prim pointed out the sounds of silence that seemed to radiate from the streets as well. No calls for taxis, no noisy drilling, no cars honking… Prim and I locked eyes, unspoken confusion evident in our shared looks. We stuffed down the last of our meager meal and headed for the exit.

Only, we couldn’t go near the exit. We were suddenly and inexplicably bound to our seats.  The next looks Prim and I exchanged were of frightened confusion. What was going on? Why couldn’t we move??

More shocking still, water began to pour and flood the café at an alarming rate. Did Sean absentmindedly leave the faucet running and left the café? That still didn’t explain why we couldn’t just get up and leave.

Within seconds the water had risen to our knees. Prim struggled violently against her invisible bonds and I watched helplessly as she knocked herself over and fell headfirst into the water. Prim, get up! I shouted. She needed to get her head above water or she’d drown.

Prim quickly calmed down and stopped struggling. She had floated to the surface now but wasn’t moving. Prim? I called out. The water was at my shoulders now and I could feel my feet leave the ground. I craned my neck back and watched how remarkably close the ceiling was getting…

Sean! I screamed. Help! Someone must hear us. Someone had to get Prim out. She needed air.

I stopped moving and my head was suddenly scraping the ceiling, the water quickly creeping its way up my neck. I took as many deep gulps of air as I could. Prim had floated out of my sight. Was she still struggling? Could she breathe again?

Before I could suck in as much oxygen as my lungs could hold, I felt a large tug from under me, and I found myself completely submerged in freezing water. I could no longer recognize the folding chairs and white tempered glass tables that adorned Sam’s Café. Above me, Prim’s large mat of red hair masked her face, but my heart sunk at the realization that was now lost to me. Prim’s figure, still somehow bound to the chair, was shrinking as it was being pulled away from me. Except, I was the one being pulled away from her. I could hear the water rushing past my ears as several pairs of boney blue toned hands pulled at me. I used whatever remaining air I had left in me to let out a bloodcurdling scream.

It was a scream that no one would hear… 

My Problem with Death

There is a moment in life in which trivial things of great concern stop being so important, when minute problems or aggravations simply disappear, when the things we spend so much time and energy on are suddenly the last things on our mind. Bills that have yet to be paid, the book you never picked up, the brown spots on your lawn, the latest gossip from the lady next door, that car your always wanted... all this and more fall away in the face of death. You forget past transgressions and your transgressors are suddenly apologetic. No matter what the quarrel, whether it was with your father for sneaking out to go see a concert, or with a teammate on the high school volleyball team for taking the title of captain, or with that attractive regular at the bar who never called back, and no matter how old the problem, suddenly, none of it matters.

That's my problem with death.

It's an escape, and one that many willing take, even though it may not be there time. Death is a problem solver, an end all solution. To me, death is an expiration date stamped on the back of our necks; it's always a secret, but once others discover it, it becomes an excuse to change things, to apologize, to make things right... But why do we wait?

Why wait for your father to be on his death bed to tell him that you love him? Why wait for your grandfather's passing to suddenly become curious as to his youth? Why beg your brother for forgiveness after he's fallen into a coma he may never come out of? Why do we seem to subconsciously wait for a musician to pass away to listen to his music? Why is an artist's painting more valuable when they're post-humorous?

Why is a human's life suddenly more valuable in death?

Don't wait, because life waits for no one. Remind the ones you love that you love them, even if they sometimes drive you crazy; if they're not driving you up the wall one day because they're trapped in a mahogany box under 3 feet of earth, you might be surprised as to how much you miss being irritated. Ask for forgiveness when you should or risk living with that guilt all your life, risk all possibility of being forgiven.

But death is nothing to be afraid of; its a normal, natural thing that happens to all living things. In the words of Peter Pan, "To die will be an awfully big adventure." But waiting to live when you're knocking on death's door is too little too late. Don't fear life either; no one gets out alive anyway.

Love always, laugh often, and live freely.

Sunday Spring

Mordecai stared out the window from his hospital bed, the sun shining through the thin white curtains on that fine Sunday afternoon; birds were chirping and the window was open just a crack to let in a small spring breeze that carried the scent of the wildflowers that blossomed a few nights ago after a big rainstorm. All Mordecai could think of was how thankful he was to be on the first floor of the hospital, else he couldn’t enjoy what little of spring he could see in his bed-ridden state, but Mordecai was grateful for that little taste of the world outside these four walls. It was all thanks to his lovely wife Esther; she argued with his doctors for days, insisting that it was crucial to his health that he be allowed a small glimpse and breath of nature. She wasn’t lying either; Mordecai spent most of his time outdoors, first as a child playing tag with his older brothers in the backyard, then as quarter back in high school, in college he helped his father take care of the stable, then finally, in his years before serving in the Army, he was caretaker to the animals in the local zoo. But after suffering a stroke a few months back, his feet haven’t felt the tickle of green grass; instead, he’s been poked, prodded, measured, injected, pushed around in a wheelchair, stuck into machines of every shape and size, and, worst of all, he can’t even make a trip to the restroom on his own anymore. Thank goodness for Esther; beautiful Esther, who gave up her days in the classroom to be with him in this prison.

At the thought of his wife, Mordecai turned to her; she was dutifully sitting by his side like she has been since the very beginning in the floral patterned armchair she had their eldest son, Noah, bring in from home. Her nose was where it usually is; stuck inside a book, her favorite pastime. From his place on the bed, Mordecai could see the title: “Tale of Two Cities,” by Charles Dickens. Mordecai shook his head in amusement; Esther must have read that book ten times now. He took in the picture of his wife, the book in her hands, her green eyes slowly rolling across the pages, completely still except for the occasional pause to turn the page. It was a beautiful scene, more so than the lovely spring day beckoning him from the window; the way Esther was at that moment was the way she was the first time Mordecai first laid his eyes on her. True, her honey-colored hair had more snow than honey since then and there were some odd lines on the corners of her eyes and lips that Mordecai had never noticed before. She even looked smaller, something Mordecai didn’t think was possible; poor Esther never had an easy time reaching the fine China on the top shelf of their kitchen. Mordecai wondered if Noah and Abel have been helping their mother in his absence….

Mordecai squinted his eyes, still locked on Esther but not really seeing her; it’s been 30 years, he realized, but he remembers it as if it were yesterday. He remembers having a hard time getting her attention; Esther always seemed intent to block her entire surrounding world when she held those dusty old books in her hands. She was extremely talented too; she could walk and read, eat and read… Mordecai often times wondered if she brought those books with her to the shower or on dates. Mordecai remembers how he would see her walking home everyday; always alone but never lonely. She had her books. But Mordecai finally caught his break when finally, on a lovely Sunday afternoon much like this one, he happened to be walking on the same street Esther always took home but in the opposite direction. He was picking up some tools that he needed to fix a burst pipe in his mother’s kitchen when, lo and behold, Mordecai bumped into the schoolgirl, knocking the book out of her hand. Mordecai even remembers the title: “Romeo and Juliet.”

It was an unexpected friendship-turned-romance that would blossom after that, though not overnight; he was fresh out of graduate school, searching for work and considering the Army, she was barely out of high school. But Mordecai was persistent and it would be two long years before he would finally steal a kiss from her and two more before they committed themselves to each other. He took in Esther’s form, that fateful day on Main Street playing in his head again; how cute she was, in her knee-high brown socks and pleated skirt, her young face flushed read with embarrassment. Mordecai chuckled at the memory and, finally, his wife tore her eyes from Dickens and flashed Mordecai a small smile of surprise.

“What’s so funny?” she said, looking at him over her reading glasses.

“I’m just wondering,” he said, his moustached lips pulling up into a grin. “How is it, after all these years, you’re still so damn cute?”

It was Esther’s turn to chuckle now. She marked the page on her book and left her place on the armchair in favor of a spot next to Mordecai.

“Because,” she said. “After all these years, I’m still younger than you.”

THE END

A Love Poem

I wrote this some time ago and it won 2nd place in a poetry contest my senior year of high school. I hope you like it!

What would I give if I could live outside of these four walls?

What would I pay to spend the day warm in your arms?

Your fingertips caressing my skin,

the way dolphins swim through calm waters.

Your lips brushing against mine

sends a wave crashing against the shoreline.

But why go through the pain

of knowing I'll stay the same?

Knowing that these images that stream,

in my eyes are nothing but a dream...

You see me standing here, not your average girl.

You can search the world, and I'll be your only pearl.

I could have been your one and only,

you wouldn't have to spend your days so lonely.

But a tigress cannot  change her stripes, 

and just as a river is ever flowing, everchanging,

I'm always ripe, and your heart is rearranging, 

making space for someone you can't have forever,

kissing my forehead and saying

"But baby, we're cute together."

What you don't know is I can swim in those eyes, 

and be lost in your lies,

as I gleefully spin and swirl, twist and twirl,

without a care in the world. 

Your voice is as intangible as this love,

humming and resonating in my heart like a dove,

as it coos and sings

of much more impossible things.

But your whispers are a gift to mankind

as it makes my skin rise

and I willingly fall into your arms

and you grin at me with all your charm.

Come and sit a while with me so I can listen to you breathe

and make you believe

and you'll draw the conclusion

that what you see before you is naught but an illusion... 

I walked away this morning and didn't look back.

I didn't want false hopes that you would chase me.

On a day like today, like a sudden attack,

I realized how much I wanted you to embrace me.

Catch me when I fall,

start me when I stall.

Tickle me when I'm serious,

slap me when I'm delirious.

Hold me when I'm crying,

stay with me when I'm dying.

We may not make it through today,

We may not die together.

But for now all I need you to say is "I love you"

and make me light as a feather.

Like Breathing: An Introduction

What can I say about myself? Well, if you couldn't tell from the title of my blog, I'm a writer... or at least, I want to be. I do most of my writing very sporadically, whenever the urge strikes me. I do the writer's equivalent of "doodling," when I'm inspired and jot down whatever scene is playing out in my head on the nearest piece of paper, or if I don't have a pen or pencil handy, I may just type it out on my iPhone. Ideas don't stay fresh in your mind for very long, after all!

Most of what I want to put on paper (metaphorically speaking) is still buzzing around my head. I hope to be able to write out all these scenes on this blog. So that is the goal of "Coll Comfort," a name made up by someone very near and dear to me. But I won't follow any set of rules. I may share more than the moments and characters in my head. I may review books on here; seems like a worthwhile endeavor. I may even ask for suggestions.

You can susbscribe/ friend request me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter or Tumblr (Warning: my Tumblr contains some adult themed material) and if you happen to be familiar with Klout, I'm on there too. I'm also on Instagram and Pinterest. Just look up my name!

Happy Writing!