I never understood grief. It consumes you and leaves a hollow empty space in your heart. I haven’t cried for her—not yet at least, and not on my own accord. When other people cry, I start to cry, I don’t know why though. Maybe because I want to feel what they feel too, maybe it’s because I’m so guilty of not having cried yet for her passing. This September has been hard, trying to cope with the fact that she won’t be there tomorrow, or next week, or in five years.

What’s beautiful is what comes out of this grief. People come together to celebrate the lives of those who passed, praying for her to move on to heaven—or whatever people believe in. However, what my family believed in was having a ceremony. We planted a magnolia tree at her house and rested her ashes in the roots where she can sprout so many beautiful magnolia flowers. Her neighbors, friends, and family helped place the dry dirt on top and there were no dry eyes around. It was beautiful to see how big this ceremony was, even if it consisted of only around 15 people.

The impact it made on all of us, healed us. We did something about our grief, and it doesn’t have to be small. It can be big, just like the huge candle lighting ceremony at school when a student suddenly passed. Everyone gathered to create something beautiful.

I hope they can see it.