Never Gone: an essay on grieving

By: Utsa Ramaswami

A lonely tear gently drifted its way down my cheek. I wasn’t sure if it was because my rabbit, Hopper, had just died, or because my brother, standing next to me, was also crying. At 7 years old, part of me knew that I would miss Hopper, but part of me asked myself why I wasn’t mourning, like Keshav.

I tried taking my mind off of it for a while, and started observing my surroundings, The sky was a soft haze of blues, pinks, and oranges. The gentle brushstrokes swept across the canvas of sky in a melancholy manner. I felt at peace, which was strange after such an awful event that seemed to shake my entire family.

My Dad could see that something was troubling me and assumed that it was Hopper passing away.

“It’s okay Utsa. We’ll all get through it together.”

I quickly realized that he had misunderstood, but I was too preoccupied to correct him. Instead, I tried to go back to my previous thoughts, but others started popping into my head: Would we get another rabbit? How would this make me feel? Would I love him more than I did Hopper? These new questions started to flood my mind, making everything foggy and unclear, and pretty soon we were heading back inside from Hopper's backyard funeral.

After less than a month, I had forgotten about those questions and within a year we decided to get a new rabbit. And answers awoke my questions, dusted away the cobwebs, and I realized that I would always miss Hopper, and memories would always come back to me; things that were supposed to happen. I would love this new rabbit, Scope, just as much as I love Hopper, but in a different new way.