I’m not quite sure how to proceed with this blog post. To share one’s writing is an act of indescribable intimacy, a glance into the deeper machinations of the mind, and also of the heart. And so it is with hesitation that I confide this to be quite possibly the most intimate of my writings thus far—as I cannot possibly foresee what I will write in a day, a week, or a month from now. Yet I feel compelled to share.
My intention is not to inundate you with painfully emotional overshares or anecdotes, but I wish to share this piece—not only as a means of self-expression, but also in the hopes that those who are familiar with the pangs of loss may find some comfort and solace in the words expressed herein, and the sentiments behind them.
Dear Grandma,
I miss you. I suppose that’s the simplest thing to say, and the easiest way to say it—it is the entirety of my emotions summed up in the neatest possible way. Three short words. Simplicity for a situation that is anything but simple. I suppose that, next to true closure, that’s all we really want in mourning—simplicity, a lack of complication in the swell of emotions that breaks over the daily monotonies and the uncertainties in how we’re supposed to proceed with our lives. Simplicity, however, does not come, not really, and while it has taken me this long to realize this, there are days where I long for it nonetheless.
People say it gets easier with time, and I think to an extent that might be true. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t days when I believe that to be the most commonly spoon-fed lie to ever grace the ears of the human race. I think the truth is really a bit of a secret—and that secret is that you learn to live with a little bit of pain, but that pain is tempered. Not even tempered, really, but eclipsed, by all the glories and affectionate reminiscences of past moments. It’s hard to let the tears continue to fall when I think of us singing (you, beautifully; me, not so much) “Animal Crackers in My Soup” times too numerous to count.
There’s something inherently pleasant about grandmothers, the archetypal ideal of motherly love, but I’ve heard the horror stories. Comparison to the cold indifferences of others is one of the quickest routes to instant appreciation, some say, but with you, such comparisons did not breed appreciation, for it already existed—it simply allowed the well of love within me to spring forward with a ferocity which had been previously unattained. I didn’t need bad grandmothers to show me how beautiful mine was. Is, really.
People say beautiful when they talk about faces and art. But that’s not enough. Real beauty transcends, a true testament laying siege against the ravages of time. Your beauty will transcend time in the remembrances that we allow to live on. The most beautiful thing someone can be is a good person—and that phrase will never do justice to all the beauty that you both brought out and placed in the world.
There is no cure for grief. Even those who depend blindly on the passage of time to kiss away the wounds of loss and fill the empty spaces will find that such hopes do not bear delicious fruit—rather, they should find a burst of saccharine sweetness followed by the blandest of aftertastes, almost bitter at the end. The reality is that loss is pain, and all the pieces of that pain may not disintegrate. And I know that pain can breed strength, and that in that strength, one can find something beautiful. Knowing you are gone is difficult. But knowing I had you—and in a way, will always have you—that makes it easy.
Love always,
Sarah
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