Nostalgia

reet sidhu

they say grief has five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

but how does grief compare when the lost is an object, not a life?
when the object is worth next to nothing,
when the object was a $7.99 bumblebee necklace.

a birthday gift,
silver, but not really,
because it was rusting all over,
it was barely even worth anything.

denial.
denying my emotions.
denying that i would be so bent out of shape,
from getting robbed of a necklace
that i could easily purchase an exact replica of.
denying that this cheap necklace was a sign that i finally came across true friends.

friends that celebrate my birthdays and successes like their own.
denying that i’m allowed to be sad.
the bumblebee didn’t even mean anything.
those who broke into my home
to take it
need it much more than i do.

anger.
a humble match lights in the bottom of my tummy.
the spark, becomes a fire, becomes a conflagration,

spreading, igniting every last nook and cranny of my body.

it wasn’t just a necklace.
it was a concrete reminder that i am loved.
this isn’t fair.
they tell you that if you are kind and generous,
that the world will reward you.
i’ve been nothing but sweet,
nothing but the pollinated, gentle lilac bush,
whispering around in the breeze
and yet i was robbed.
am i not worthy of honey?

bargaining.
i know they had to take the expensive stuff,
because thieves are people too.
people that deserve nice things.
it just sucks that those nice things were mine.
i’ve always been a fan of the tale of robin hood,
taking from the rich and giving to the poor.
but i’m not rich, and what do the poor want with a rusty bumblebee necklace?

depression.
friends are fleeting, jewelry is not.
why didn’t they just steal my memories and experiences?

acceptance.
i know my friends are my friends for a reason nonstop giggling,
chitchats at our kitchen counter,
dealing with the robbery together,
i know i am lucky to have lost only the necklace.

—————————— mourning a bumblebee

i hope my mom doesn’t miss me too much.

i have my own place now,
with my own special house-smell.
my own schedule, my own life.

but yet, i hope my mom doesn’t miss me too much.

i do miss home sometimes.

the front door,
which my mom would wake me up at 2am to ask if i locked before sleeping.

the windows,
the bane of my existence.
it was my job to raise and lower the shutters everyday, and i got lectured for forgetting.

the kitchen,
where my mom made my breakfast without asking.

the bread will go bad without me there.

the sofa,
where i was comforted every time i failed.

where we argued senselessly, all the time.

where we practiced our dance moves until 2am.

who will entertain her the way i have?

i hope my mom doesn’t miss me too much.

there’s no way she could.
because however much she misses me,
i miss her more.

—————————— a walk through my house

“you can’t go sleepover” i burst into tears.
i’m only eight, after all. i demand why.

why won’t mommy let me have fun?
“she has a brother”
—————————— thank you for protecting me, mom