Suffice it to say, in my family stories of the 'great-depression' mean something completely different.
I've never really given much credence to the family legend. Perhaps because my memories of my grandmother are always of strength. Sometimes overbearing strength, but strength nevertheless. And I have always wondered how someone who made a career out of establishing her will over others did not use her considerable will-power to turn the blackness away from her doors in disgrace.
Except recently, when I least expect it memories of the day my father was killed hover at the edge of my mind. A different detail every day. On some days its the sounds I hear, on others I see the doctors sitting on his chest as they pull him from the emergency-room into surgery. Other days I see in acute detail the rickshaw Dani and I were going to the hospital in even as I knew in my heart that my life was going to shatter. I remember the phone call I got at home, from my aunt, trying to stay calm but telling me I need to get over there because something very bad had happened. And with each of these - and a hundred more memories - comes a tantalizing, tempting, seducing darkness.
It's different to explain why this darkness is not hostile, or scary but instead brings with it a delicious, safe warmth that promises to cocoon me from the cold-cold memories. It brings with it infinite promise of finally finding peace. And a strange sort of freedom. As I resist the temptation to give in, it makes me wonder what is so bad in just giving in, and letting go?
Letting the darkness come in, and take over.
Just like she did.