When I was little, I thought people would live forever.
My grandma had a big house, with doors everywhere.
Every door is a different memory.
She had a room, more like a hallway, full of dolls.
"Can I play with them?"
"Can I touch them?"
"Can I look at them?"
"No." And the door was always closed.
As I got older, we went to her house more often.
I was only allowed in the living room, all the other doors were shut.
It's like she closed the door on me, like she did the dolls.
I remember trying to sneak in there one night to actually look at them and to see what beauty they possessed,
But when I got to the door, I remembered, she doesn't want me in here.
Do I even want to be in here?
I only wanted to see all the dolls that filled that room.
I wanted to see the beauty in that room.
I wanted to see it with my own eyes, not just hear stories.
My mom told me the dolls were in glass cabinets, stacked on top of each other.
The ones on the top row watched over the ones on the rows below them.
The dolls underneath looked up to the top row of dolls.
Like I did my grandma.
So did I want to be in there?
I only wanted to see.
And I only wanted to see why I didn't get to see my grandma.
To see her laying on a cloud, full body shown, was a dark day.
Her body lowered into the ground, but also went up.
The dolls went too, as if they were her.
Seeing them go was a never-ending sorrow.
But I now know, people don't live forever.
That people have to die.
That people have to move on,
because if you don't, it leaves a pain in your heart.
Do people's souls live on?
Do you see them when people dance?
Do you see them yelling
And the only way to see, is to look from a cloud or from the ground.
Like my grandma.
Like the dolls.