The day was cold; not the normal cold though, a cold in which you could be wearing a hundred layers and still find yourself shivering. It was a chill that froze from the inside out rather than a chill that merely gives you goosebumps or a chill. It was as if the world knew that she was gone or the world was mourning alongside me. As I stood there, minuscule snowflakes floated around and melted instantaneously on the pavement. I shivered realizing the world felt the same way I did: cold and alone. My inner feelings beneath the surface reflected the cold and biting weather around, despite the convincing facade we both may have had to an outside onlooker. We both, the weather and I could do nothing but sit in the cold darkness of our souls and just wait until the cold and fog were cleared. Life is a beautiful and miserable thing, and in that day, weather and my feelings were entangled so much so that they were indistinguishable.
Surely my grandmother wasn't a war hero. She won't be put in the history books, to be forged upon the next generation so they can pass a test. Even some of my familial members won't remember her every moment of every day.
At the end of the night, a warmth was inside, not the weather, not inside of me, but in the house. It was a house full of family, a house full of warmth, a house full of temporary comfort. One can't be caught in an embrace for eternity nor will they be able to hide in the shelter of a warm home.
For we will all have to face the cold weather that lies before us; the inevitable tide of emotion and cold.