Queen of the Tiles

by Hanna Alkaf

People talk about the stages of grief as if they’re levels to clear in a video game, and once you hit the Final Boss Level and defeat the monster therein, you’re free. The truth is that there is no linear progression to grief. If it is a game, it is one that twists and turns and darts back and forth through many layers; one day it’s easy, one day it isn’t, and one day it attacks you out of nowhere just when you think you’ve moved on.

It’s funny—well, maybe not to anyone but me—to ENDURE also means to suffer something patiently, and my mother is definitely suffering.

Grief is a heavy thing; it weighs you down, turns all your limbs to lead.

But life, like Scrabble, is like that—you get the rack you get, and you just have to figure out how to make do.

“nanti gelap, takde orang nak kahwin awak,” as if I cared about anyone wanting to marry me, as if I wanted to get married at all.)

this line just too close to hit home

The thing about flying is that the scariest part isn’t soaring through the air. It’s the moment that comes right before. It’s making the decision to let yourself fall. It’s surrendering yourself to gravity, knowing there is no turning back.

The thing about Yasmin is that her affection seems over the top, until you realize she’s an equal opportunity term of endearment deployer and will literally honey-sweetie-sayang-love just about anyone.

My grief puts me on one side of an invisible fence, apart from everyone else; it is isolating, immobilizing. Yasmin is on the other side of the fence busking her sorrow loudly to the world: Her grief is ostentatious, all-encompassing, in your face.

I’m not sure what punctuation ever did to my mother, but apparently they’re no longer on speaking terms.

I know the relief is temporary, but grief, I’m learning, is a burden you carry your whole life, and a smart person would welcome any breaks they can get.

It’s such a bloody cliché, the stuff YA novels are made of, the hopeless crush on the best friend’s boyfriend. You’re over it. You’ve been over it for months now.

‘I was always told that the most polite thing to do was mind my own business, but since you’ve decided to mind mine, then I have to tell you that your breath is also very offensive,

“You think your way of being sad is the only way? You are not the only person who lost her. I lost her too. And just because we experience that differently doesn’t mean that my way is wrong, or that it doesn’t mean anything.”