Little girl

Cactuz has fascinated me with the contrast of old and young in his blog and somewhat inspired me to write the following entry. The following essay is based on a real life account though names are fictitious and some details deliberately omitted to protect identities and keep the story short and sweet.

As a little girl wept profusely over the loss of her mother, the bystander Jane's eyes were as dry as a desert. Some of the girl's other relatives at the funeral stepped forward to offer their consolation and even they carried faces of immense sadness. Some of the senior folk who knew Jane since her birth passed a disapproving glance at her expressionless face. They gossiped in low voices about how Jane was still cheerfully playing when her mother who had doted on her the most was being cremated. That was almost 30 years ago when Jane, being the youngest child at age 5, had thought her mother was sleeping and still fussed about, wanting attention despite being at her mother's funeral.

Now that Jane is a grown woman, she can no longer find the tears for her misery. It took her some years later, after her mother had passed away, to realise that the mother who had cared for her was forever gone. But by then she just couldn't express her grief by crying any more.

As Jane stared blankly at the little girl who was mourning, she felt that the little girl was lucky-- lucky to appreciate mortality, lucky to be able to shed tears and lucky not to live the indignity of being cursed by elders. The truth is none of those at the funeral can ever sympathise Jane's agony and how she had picked herself up to surpass sorrow and live through life.

Yet it is people who view matters on the surface that lead to irresponsible tongue wagging, especially older folk who think they have seen the world. Why are some people so adverse to death when living and dying all comes in an irrefutable package? No doubt a question an enlightened Jane asks in her mind.