It was the most wonderful funeral service imaginable.
Flowers littered the church, and there was not one single black outfit in sight. It was just the way she would have wanted it.
Mother and myself sat on the second row, and looking to our left, and one row in front, we saw my father. He was weeping into his hands. I pitied him. He was truly alone now. I knew how that felt.
After the service, we caught up with him. Mother didn't stop me from greeting him, and she apologised for his loss. They shared a look for a second, then father invited us to his small house for drinks, where some other close relatives were headed. We gratefully declined, and I was somewhat thankful. I wanted to put this unhappy ordeal behind me.
Over the next few days I did nothing. No writing, nothing. Me and mother would talk through most of the day, about anything. Grandmother, the future, and I finally told her about the Sanctuary. She seemed happy that I was able to find somewhere to escape to, but I insisted that I preffered it here now. This house had gradually become my home, and we were a family, albeit a small one.
Father called sometimes, to talk to either of us. He realised that he didn't want to be cut off from the family any more. It was agreed that they wouldn't be happy together, but they wanted to be on good terms. He began to visit frequently, and it was nice. Although not properly, the family was growing a little bit at a time.
I'd visit the Sanctuary from time to time. At first just to sit, look at the sky and think about things, but over time, I begun to take my journal up there again, and writing became not just a hobby, but almost a tribute to my grandmother.
Despite the Sanctuary, my new family, and the idea that one day, I'd make grandmother proud, I feel that it's fair to say that writing was, and still is, my only real escape. My only real freedom.
My only real sanctuary.