Chloe approached the cemetery entrance. In the six years her brother was dead, she had only gone five times, all in the last two months.
She remembered the first time she went there; she had to park in front of the cemetery for her new job. When she had finished her day at work, she went to get the car and found herself at the cemetery door, which was wide open. She thought that, being there, she could not not go in, she felt it would be like turning her back on her brother, and it had been too long without wanting to recognise his death. It was time to start accepting it, therefore, she crossed the great iron gate and tried to locate herself in the labyrinth of tombs that stood before her. She remembered the day of the burial, six years ago and quickly found her brother’s grave.
When standing right in front of it, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she had to sit, talk, think or cry, but she did notice a bouquet of flowers that had laid down and placed it in its original state. By doing that simple action, she felt a little more comfortable so she decided to sit with her legs crossed.
It was beginning of spring and she noticed that the flowers of the planter were beginning to blossom. These were yellow and orange daisies, a very vivid color considering the place where they were. She still liked it, her brother had always been a very funny and energetic boy, that color represented him. Two bushes about one metre high covered the two sides, protecting from the wind and the cold the tomb where the blond-haired boy Chloe had always admired so much rested.
She spent ten minutes sitting there, not knowing what to do, so she tried what her psychologist had told her so many times; she tried to connect with her emotions. Over the past few years, Chloe’s method of survival had been basically not feeling. That protected her from all the possible pain that might happen if someone hurt her or someone she loved, died.
On the other hand, it also made her unable to connect well with other people, whether it was her family, her friends or people she had just met. Her method of survival had her pros and cons and, lately, she was realising that perhaps it was not so bad to express emotions. Her new problem was that she did not know how to do it, so she dedicated herself to write in a diary and to photograph things, people or places that made her feel in a special way.
Sometimes, when she felt with enough courage, she would share some of her writings to people in her circle of trust. She was still afraid that they would know how she felt, to share her writings was to share her innermost self, where she knew no one had come before; not even herself.
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