The Ending of Things: Love, Age and Childhood Shoes
Where did my discarded dolls go to die? When did I become a woman? When did we stop writing letters?
Liminal, a word I came to know in a cold lecture hall one October, is a word that describes most things.
Humans exist at the tandem between past and present. We are constantly finishing, starting, expanding and decreasing. You grow up only to grow down. You love only to hate. You learn only to forget.
This isn’t bad. It just is. Good little girls die, but so do dictators and monsters. You’ll grow out of your treasured childhood ballet shoes, only to grow into your beautiful red silk heels. As the old fade, the young blossom. Change is.
There is no great depression or joy to it. Be. You are liminal. The clouds and the tides and the fires on the hearths exist in their lack of permanence. Treasure it. While it is.
When you realise you don’t love someone anymore, much of the grief is for what was. It exists in the nostalgic polaroid past, fading wedding photographs, receipts at the back of your wallet. There is a dullness to life without the euphoria. But it will come again, for all the thudding loneliness and long nights spent watching cats fall off sofas on YouTube.
My grandmother told me she didn’t fear death. Usually as stern and severe as any war child, she gruffly asked me not to be unhappy when she passed. She’d done everything she wanted in her life. For her, The End is something that comes when all the characters have grown up, had their satiation of life, and now must fade for new heroes and heroines to come forward.
I still will be sad, when she goes.
But I like her philosophy.