I haven’t been able to write for days. Not since I found out about Nena. She took her own life one week ago and I have been shocked into a crumbling state, floored by the incredible pull of gravity, still unable to believe the truth. Today is my first attempt at pen to paper, truth to the page—a terrifying thought—as if by writing it down, she will finally really be gone.
It is early morning and the sky is still dark. The house is silent save for the soft sleeping sounds of grandma in her temporary bedroom next door. The guest room is where she now sleeps. Grandpa wakes too often in the night, so an aide comes every evening at eight o’clock for the night shift. Her name is Alphia and she sits by his bedside, waiting for grandpa to need the bathroom or ask his re-orienting questions in the middle of the night.
The squirrels are eating the birdseed and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Also, what makes the squirrels less deserving than the birds? Why do we feed the birds but not the squirrels? I am sitting outside with my coffee this morning. It is just past seven AM and the sun is up. Grandma is still sound asleep. Grandpa is in the hospice house for five days of respite and the house is so quiet. I know he probably does not want to be there. Of course, he prefers to be at home.
While we were living with my grandparents, the beach at the bottom of the hill became our summer ritual. It has a real name—Diamond Point Beach—but we never used it, despite it being less of a mouthful. The beach at the bottom of the hill was a small slice of sand, a public town beach wedged in between two large private lakeside houses.
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Hi, I’m Saskia. I am a yoga and meditation instructor, translator, and writer from New York, currently based in Fethiye, Turkey. I have kept personal journals since I was a child. I write for the same reason that I breathe. These are my stories.
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