to grieve (to live regardless)

THE WALLS

My mother chose a light green wallpaper covered in flowers. I used to count the flowers to pass the time. When that wasn’t enough, I’d count the petals. When that still wasn’t enough, I’d count the lines.

To be alive is to hurt. To be 13 is to hurt more. I count petals in intervals of 13. He loves me. He loves me not. I do not count the lines I draw on my skin. He loves me not. He loves me not. 

The corner of the wallpaper was peeling. A strip of green has been entirely torn off. The flowers are prettier to look at. There is nothing wrong with this.

THE SWEATER

My favorite sweater was green. The edges frayed and it was covered in stains unknown. The sweater stayed on through the summer heat. A storm raged throughout the year. The sleeves covered the marks lightning left.

To be alive is to burn. To be 14 is to be anger incarnate. My body has always run hotter than most. I seek the cold like a moth to a flame. Still, I kept it on.

The only thing protecting the world from me was a worn-out piece of green cotton fabric. With every piece of thread snagged, my limits were pushed. I could have set the world on fire.

THE ROSARY

My grandmother gifted me a glow-in-the-dark rosary back in elementary school. It lit up in an eerie green color when the lights were off. I wrapped it around my wrist, covering those unerasable lines.

To be alive is to want. To be 17 is to drown in desire. I remember kneeling on the cathedral pews, drunk on things I should not have drank. As the choir sang, I begged whoever was listening to show me a sign that my life would not stay like this.

The beads burned in a way that cuts did not. With every Hail Mary and Our Father, I prayed for a turnover, a second chance. I could've done better. I could do better. Let me do better.

THE PLANT

My childhood dream was to have a garden. In my childhood, I sunk the first seed, plucked from an unknown plant, into the ground. I watched as the first green leaf sprouted. I watched as my grandmother plucked it from its place in the pot.

To be alive is to mourn. To be 10 is to learn what anguish means. It wasn't meant to live. It wouldn't have survived there. From a young age, I've always felt more like evidence than person. Me, the proof of sin. Me, what should have never happened.

The soil lies fertile but acts barren. Every seed planted becomes fertilizer from the absence of care. I am your negligent gardener. Let me lie with you and I shall never wish to leave.

THE DRINK

My go-to drink is matcha. Although my family recoils at the taste of it, I love it. I love the refreshing grassy taste of that green concoction. Even when it was so difficult to find a consistently good cup, I loved it regardless.

To be alive is to take. To be 16 is to want it all. I've never been particularly picky about the taste of my drinks. I sip and swallow until all that's left is ice.

The bitter, the milk, the earth—I take it all. Let it fill me up, let it paint the linings of my stomach as green as grass. The good, the bad—I want it all; I'll take it all.

THE RIBBON

My lanyard is a tranquil blue. The ribbon pinned on it is sage green. What no one tells you is how, sometimes, old colors get new meanings.

To be alive is to hope. To be 19 is to keep going. I remember sitting in a circle of my friends, a roll of ribbon in hand. Snip. Twist. Pin. Again and again, until hundreds fill up the basket we surround. It takes more than a pair of hands. It takes conversations and good music playing in the background.

The old hurts don't just disappear. Instead, they are soothed. The ribbon roll unrolls and finds its way to you who reads. Sometimes, green is an illness, a warning sign. Now, I see that it can also be something else. It can be a renewal. It can be growth. It can be a reminder of support, just waiting around the corner with golden safety pins in hand. It can be hope.

And hoping is an act that brings constant grief, but we keep on living regardless.


Written by Ayesha Cala
Art by Marxlen Sumondong