Lost Children

Blacksburg, Virginia. Sistan and Baluchestan Province, Iran. Jindo Island, South Korea.

32. 35. 295.

Shooting. Earthquake. Capsize.

Death is inevitable, and we expect it. We grow accustomed to it. Desensitized. Apathetic. Stone-faced.

But loss is fresh every single time. The piercing pain in our hearts as we cry and grieve, as we mourn and pull at our hair, as we grab the empty air in hopes of catching a glimmer of what is gone.

It’s as if someone took a knife to our heart and won’t stop twisting it. The pain sharpens, but eventually dulls. However, it leaves a lasting mark.

When we lose our loved ones, we grieve. We cry. We weep. We mourn.

And we love. Our hearts swell as we reach out for support because we find it hard to stand by ourselves.

The only loved one I’ve lost is my grandfather. I remember when I heard the news over the phone and I broke down crying even though I didn’t fully realize what was happening. But I could feel it. I didn’t have to comprehend the words to understand the pain that it conveyed. I remember when I saw my mother cry and it frightened me to see her in such a vulnerable state. I was afraid of how loss could wreck us

yet also unite us.

I used to be embarrassed by how easily I would cry when watching a sad movie or hearing someone share a painful experience but I understand now. I cry because their pain hurts me too. I cry because I know this pain shouldn’t exist. I cry because one day, I hope loss will be no more.


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