The Universe is Indifferent

‘Neuf saison’ as the French call it, spring, the season of newness, rejuvenation, renewal and rebirth. Surely, it is the most picturesque season of all. But this time, I could not see it. This year it was different, too much happening around me. My circumstances clouded my mind and I didn’t even notice the hue of the fresh, blooming flowers, the deep azure of the sky, the energizing warmth of the kind Sun, or the welcoming twitter of birds. It had only been two months since my grandfather died.

It used to be his favorite season. He loved to wake up early and go for a walk in our garden. He was always barefooted, for he loved the sensation of the moist grass under his feet. I sometimes walked with him, but I always wore slippers. The grass tickled me. He would tell me stories of the olden times, when he was a child. When I was younger, I was incredulous; Gramps had always been as old as the Sun, hadn’t he? As I grew older, I appreciated the stories much more than before, I learned from them. He never held back anything, even if it didn’t show him in the best light, he wanted me to learn from his mistakes, he used to say.

I remember our last walk. It was before my sophomore year in high school began. Being a Sunday, we decided to take a longer walk. We also visited the park close to our house to feed the birds. He used to a bird-watcher back in the day and told me all there was to know about each bird we spotted. I don’t remember much of it, but I do fondly reminisce how happy he was, how everything was serene. The world didn’t exist beyond that bench in Boyd Park. The birds seemed conscious of our moment, as they quietly nibbled at the dried bread we were feeding them, not wanting to spoil it for us by making a sound.

Like most teenagers, with high school came many changes. We didn’t grow apart, but we weren’t as close as we used to be. I became obsessed with girls, Metallica and cars, seemingly having outgrown the idyllic lifestyle that I was used to. The season didn’t matter anymore, I wasn’t going for a walk anyway. Studies also became a priority because college was looming in the horizon. 2012 was the year I graduated school.

It definitely came as a shocker. He had never been ill. But I guess that was the way he’d have wanted to go, peacefully, while sleeping. To say I was sad would almost be disrespectful to his memory. He passed away in February; he had missed Spring. Then, college essays and applications took up all my time as I ignored Nature’s most beautiful painting, spring. I guess I was afraid that outside would remind me of him and I would breakdown again. He would not have wanted that. After much self-coercion, I decided to go out one morning.

This time, I was also barefooted, just as he used to love. Everything reminded me of him and yet, I didn’t feel sad. After a long walk in the garden, I went to the park. The birds were there as usual, the sparrows, the pigeons and all their friends. As I sat on that bench that day, it finally made sense to me. I saw Nature as he used to, like he described it, as if he were explaining it to me from above. I didn’t just find beauty, but also meaning in Nature and all its forms. The birds were quiet like before, for they sensed his presence too. He was there, explaining Life, Nature, Spring and a myriad of other things to me. I wasn’t sad, because he was and still is my pillar of strength.