Sunday, August 7, 2016

A Letter to My Late Grandmother



Hello Grandma.

Writing this letter to you is insanely difficult for me, and I've had a long, hard think about it, but I know that I finally have to deal with grieving because if I only ever keep all these things swirling about in my head where they currently are, I'm going to be stuck in this same dark space forever.

Truth is, it's been almost 12 years since you died, and even though people told me that I will eventually move on, I still get a lump in throath and feel my heart sink into my stomach whenever I think about you.

What wears me out the most is that I was only five years old when you died at the age of 66. That's not an age to die at. You should've had so much more time. Time for yourself, and your family, and my little brother, whom you never really got to know because the cancer that killed you came so shortly after his birth.

Even though I was so young and it's been so long, I'm glad I have at least some memories of you.
I remember the days you looked after me when my parents went to work and I was still too young to go to the kindergarten, I remember snuggling up on the living room couches with you and grandpa, I remember how you'd take me to the forest to play out.

What I don't remember is your voice, and that scares me. I don't even know whether I could even remember your face if we didn't have so many photos of you. It makes me feel like a failure.
I don't want to ask Mom whether she remembers your voice because I know how sad that would make her. I'm afraid to talk to Mom about you, period, because I cannot imagine what I would feel like if I'd lose her, so I cannot fathom what she ha sbeen going through for the past twelve years of her life. I'm afraid to rip up old wounds that never really healed.

I don't even dare to say this out loud, but I feel like when you died, a part of my childhood died with you.
I feel like such an event makes you grow up a lot faster. I mean, while my parents watched over you as you died, I was at home, playing games with my aunt who looked after me, absolutely clueless. I had no idea how terrible your situation really was. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I still blame myself for this everytime I stand in front of your grave.

I've thought about death quite a lot ever since you died. About the afterlife, and what it must be like.
When I was little, I imagined it like a kind of big hotel up in the clouds, where you were looked after by angels. I'd used to stare out the window and try to talk to you and your angels. I wondered whether they treated you well.

To be honest, I don't know. I don't know a thing about where you are right now and whether everything is better for you, the way my parents told me you'd be better now because you weren't in pain anymore.

But I do hope so. I really, really hope that wherever you are, you're full of happiness and hopefully re-united with grandpa.
I miss both of you so much. I would give anything to talk to you right now, to hug you. I wonder whether you'd be proud of the person I've become.

More than anything, I wish with all of my heart to see you again someday, whether it's in a hotel filled with angels, our old forest or anywhere else.





This letter is a part of my 'A Letter to...' series, made up of a set of letters I wrote but will never send.
If you're interested, you can find the letter to first boy I've ever loved here.

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