On graves and love

My week started with watching my Grandmother being stored in a drawer. I visited the dead city to witness it. A huge graveyard of a town somewhere a bit north to Tel Aviv. The graves are so numerous that they started building towers for them, piling them up on top of each other.
I was horrified by it. Burn the body for all the soul cares, I think it will be much more proper. But it is not allowed in Judaism. Unthinkable, even among the non-believers.  
I wasn’t that close to my grandmother. Although she loved me. She loved me the way she knew how, which was very glum compare to other forms of love I got blessed with in my childhood. The war touched her life in a way it never recovered from. She always had a relationship with death. I could sense it even when I was very young. I didn’t like it, I wasn’t willing to face it. And maybe I am still a bit of a coward.
My other Grandmother, born and raised in Israel, has a different place in me. She was very much alive until her last breath and I still can’t believe she is not. She is buried in a forest next to the town her family founded. A peaceful place. My mom said she got a privilege. But I don’t think the dead get any privilege. You only get it in your life. My forest buried grandmother, who I love and miss so much, got the privilege of love.

I am grandmotherless now.

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