The Ache Between Us

Chapter Five - Iris

My father didn't want to give my grandpa an Armenian funeral like I knew he wanted. He deemed it odd that we had to mourn for forty days and that we had to keep my grandpa's body in the house even though he had passed. My father didn't believe in the old traditions of Armenians, where after someone dies, the clocks are stopped, the mirrors are covered, and the deceased's hands are tied up to not distract the Angel of Death from taking his soul.

My father told me it was silly superstitions, but I knew my grandpa would be disappointed knowing his son didn't respect and honor his wishes. My father thought it was ridiculous and insisted that we do it the American way. He didn't even allow me to light a candle in honor of my grandpa, but I didn't have the energy and patience to fight with him. I never did.

My father and I weren't very close. He worked too much and was never home–the main reason why my mother left him for some younger guy back in Florida. I spent most of my childhood hanging out with my grandpa, and even as I grew up, I still loved sitting alongside him, as he told me old stories or sang me songs in old Armenian.

If I close my eyes, I could still hear his gravelly voice as he sang Paul Baghdadlian, his hands moving around in dramatic gestures. Sometimes he'd grab my hand and lead me into a dance around the living room, twirling me around like I was a princess. The house without him felt empty, not lacking people, but lacking soul, of life, of joy. I never minded being home since he was always with me, but now I hated the house more than I hated anything.

Everything reminded me of my grandpa, and it hurt to remember; it hurt to think about him. I cried too much, more than I cried when my mother left my father. I cried to the point where it had me questioning when my tears were going to run out. My heart felt like it was barely beating as if realizing its soulmate had passed.

My father returned to work the second after putting my grandpa into the ground, muttering about how much time and money he's lost and wasted the entire ride home. I bit back a million retorts because I was too busy lost in my grief. I knew I would have to mourn him all on my own, and as much as it fucking ached, I had no choice.

Everyone mourns differently.

Rafael's words came to mind, and it was the only thing that had me not wanting to throttle my father. Maybe this is how he was mourning his father. Maybe I couldn't understand the level of his sadness, his pain, because everyone mourns differently. Rafael came to mind a few times since we buried my grandpa yesterday, I mean I know Rafael and I were far from friends, yet I think I actually missed him.

I missed fighting with him. I missed seeing him. It was a weird kind of missing. I've never missed someone that I wasn't close with before. I don't think I've ever even missed my mother. Of course, it didn't help that she cheated on my father, forever ruining the relationship we could have had, but even then.

I don't think I was close to anyone besides my grandpa, and now that he was gone, I felt even more alone than ever. Who would I sit on the patio swing with and drink mint tea with? Who would brush my hair every night before kissing me on the forehead? Who would make me laugh? Keep me sane? My father definitely wouldn't be doing anything, mourning or not, he didn't really enjoy spending any time with me.

A knock on the door pulled me away from my depressing thoughts, and I reluctantly crawled out of bed and down the stairs. The wooden stairs creaked with every step I took until I reached the front door. I swung it open, surprised to see Rafael standing on the other side in jeans and a black band tee shirt, holding flowers in his hand, with his backpack swung on his shoulder.

"Astvac hogin lusavori." He spoke, in choppy Armenian, "Is that right? I saw on Reddit that it means 'may God illuminate their soul.'" He shuffled on his feet awkwardly.