I’m still going through it. Some days I find it easy to deal with and accept it, and other days I still think it’s not real.
Death is a weird thing. You never get over it, you get through it. I still think about you every day and every night, how I will be able to hug you again or have a deep conversation with you, but I can’t.
I never thought I would be losing you. I thought that you would see me graduate high school, but you can’t. That you could drive with me, but you can’t. That I could ask you what your favorite memories are and you tell me, but you can’t. That you could see me get married and meet my significant other, but you can’t. That you could see how my style and interests have changed, and that I could take your portrait with my own camera, but I can’t. That I could write about our conversation and the questions I could’ve asked you, but I can’t.
I still struggle with you dying suddenly. I hate that I didn’t call you when I thought of you on certain days. Nothing was stopping me except myself, and I hate it. I know you weren’t feeling great, but maybe if we talked about it and why, you might’ve. We will never know now—only when we meet again sometime later in life.
I love you lots and miss you every day, grandma. Please come visit in my dreams and hug me while I sleep. Please visit me as a feather on the ground or piece of fluff flying in the air. No matter how many times I write it, I love you a million times and miss you a lot. I hope you are doing well and are now healthy and free of every sorrow and pain you ever had.