Member-only story
When I was young, I loved deeply. I’d meet strangers and upgrade them to the best friend tier within weeks. I wanted to share my entire life with my family, my extended family, and my classmates.
I fell in love with buildings, places, and songs. I cried when we flew out of Egypt, head against the cold airplane window, because I didn’t know when I’d be back to one of the most gorgeous countries in the world.
I loved and I loved deeply, passionately, unreservedly. I wrote poetry because my heart was open, the words were honest, and there were deep feelings that I wanted to let out into the world. I did not love because it was easy. It was because I did not know any other way to live.
But if you wear your heart on your sleeve, it will get tattered. And over and over and over again, I paid the price for it.
When I was four, my grandmother died. I remember it clearly, young as I was. I was in my parents’ bathroom, reading a book, and they opened the door with the news. My mother is still not over it, twenty years later. In Hindu culture, you don’t sugarcoat or lie about death. You don’t pretend they’re in a better place now. So I knew she was gone and that that was the end of her food and smiles…
