Love Story Article: She Quietly Left, Never to Return
Goodbyes should always be a little stronger because a second glance might be the last, and an extra word could be the final one.
It is only now that I truly feel the truth and sorrow in this statement.
When I heard the news and hurried home, I still held onto a sliver of hope that she would be there as usual, leaning against the door, looking out at the alley. I imagined her waiting for me, pulling me inside with her frail yet gentle hands, chatting away with endless warmth.
But this time, she wasn’t there. Instead, I was greeted by white mourning cloths, the growing sound of funeral music, and the scent of burning incense that filled the room. She lay there quietly, motionless.
A picture of her hung in front of her body, her eyes full of love.
Her back had become increasingly hunched, unable to straighten anymore. Her frail body, which trembled with every effort to move, eventually succumbed to the slow failure of her organs. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes as her pain grew. Although time had been unkind, it could not erase her kindness and grace. Even in her old age, she retained the same gentle expression. Her white hair and deeply etched wrinkles did nothing to diminish her warmth. The photo of her was just as I remembered.
I rushed over, wanting to hug her, to tell her I had arrived as I always did. But they stopped me, telling me not to touch her, not to hold her hand, lest she be reluctant to leave. But I couldn’t help myself. I secretly touched her through the cloth; she was ice-cold, a chill that penetrated to the bone. The same hands that warmed mine every winter were now lifeless. She just lay there, so still.
I stood in front of her body, dazed, as if everything had stopped. I listened as Grandpa leaned down and whispered in her ear, telling her to take her time and not to be afraid, that he would soon join her. I felt the reality of her departure, the finality of it, and the deep loneliness in Grandpa’s eyes as he bent down—these were all so vivid.
That night, I insisted on staying up with her. It was late, and Grandpa kept coming out of his room to look at her, bending over her for a long time each time. Grandpa said that before, Grandma often woke up at night and liked to chat with him for a while. When you get old, sleep becomes more fragile, and it’s easier to feel at ease with a bit of conversation. He said he was afraid she couldn’t sleep well without him, so he came out to check on her.
When she was bedridden, I often saw Grandpa standing at her bedside, bending over to gaze at her. He would stand there for a long time. Back then, I always thought they were happy, having supported each other through so many years, always together—through quarrels and companionship alike. But now, the person who shared his days and nights was gone. How long would it take to adjust to this loss?
Grandpa told me that she used to like sitting at the door, watching the old alley at sunset. Sometimes she looked a bit lonely, but then she would smile, likely hoping that the children she missed would appear at the end of the alley, or perhaps recalling the children she had cared for over the years. Later, when Grandma became bedridden, she could no longer do this. Grandpa began to stand in the alley in her place, watching over those she cared about.
She was always meticulous, loving cleanliness. She said that as you get older, it’s even more important to stay neat, so people will still want to be close to you. Even when her health declined, she made sure that the house remained unchanged, always keeping the home in order, never wanting to trouble anyone. She even prepared all the things she would need after her passing long in advance, so thoughtfully it made my heart ache.
When she was placed in her coffin, I knelt before her, unable to stop crying. I wanted to say a proper goodbye, but I couldn’t get a word out through my tears. It was Grandpa who comforted me, his eyes red, saying that Grandma left with a smile, that she didn’t suffer, and that she had lived a full life. He told me not to cry, to be good.
Before the cremation, when she was pushed away in the coffin, I watched her being taken farther and farther away, standing at the door, unwilling to leave. I couldn’t explain it, and no one could understand the pain and sorrow I felt—the sudden collapse of a cherished part of my world. It was like walking to the end of time, where there was nothing, no echo. Before she was placed in the urn, the staff allowed us to say our final goodbyes. But I couldn’t see her anymore. There was no coffin like before, no cloth covering her, no her underneath. Only incomplete white bones remained, lying on a cold metal tray—this ritual was so cruel.
I bit down hard on my hand, trying to hide my emotions. I wanted to let her go peacefully, quietly.
She used to always say that after she left, she would become a star. I didn’t believe it then, but now that she’s truly gone, I’ve started to believe because I hold onto the hope that I can see her whenever I look up. And she, still, smiles with those kind eyes.
I don’t believe in ghosts or gods, I don’t believe in religion or superstition, but I do believe that wherever she is, she will be treated with the same kindness—with no illness, no suffering, no pain, and no worry. Her face will still be full of kindness, her eyes still smiling.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
