When I was between the ages of six and nine, my family lived in the second floor of my grandma’s house. My parents were working through school, and due to her health, my grandma never went upstairs anyway. During that time, my parent’s relationship crumbled and after significant money stress, they divorced. My grandma would invite my sisters and I downstairs to paint, sew, write, or make fudge to distract us. We didn’t have much money, so we would spend hours making our own emtertainment out of fabric, glue, old clothes and random items. She taught me how to use a sewing machine and she brought us to the library almost twice a week for years. As her part in our lives increased she encouraged me to set goals that others considered outlandish for a quiet kid in my situation. She said I could graduate valedictorian, go to a big college, publish my writing, perform music, or reach my dream job of working in law enforcement. She heavily influenced who I am today and she co-wrote my future plans. It was painful when it became apparent she would not be able to see me reach any of those goals.
She was sick for as long as I could remember, but it didn't stop her from living life as she wanted and setting an example for us. Her ideals revolved around standing firm in your beliefs, but being forgiving.
She gave everyone second, third, fourth, ninth chances, and she did her best at anything she committed to. When her health started failing, it was in the midst of COVID. We could rarely visit her in the hospital, and she was unlikely to respond much even when we could visit. I knew she was fighting, she was always a fighter, but in the end she died among family, holding my grandpa’s hand. Her last response was a smile.
It was then that I resolved to hold onto her memory by living closely to her example. I knew what she expected of me, what she believed I could achieve, and that helped me believe it myself. I have worked hard to maintain a 4.0 GPA, keep in the top of my grade, and take advantage of every opportunity I am given. Recently a poem I wrote was chosen in a national competition to be published. My immediate excitement was overshadowed quickly when I realized that the person I most wanted to tell, the person who used to read and critique my writing for me, was now out of reach.
Those moments, when you should be elated and yet can barely hold a smile, are the moments you realize grief doesn’t really fade. It may become subdued for a time, or you may become distracted, but it’s still present. The hole that person once filled wouldn’t magically disappear. I hoped that by reaching these goals I would feel closer to my grandmother, but it was more painful to have checked off a box without her.
I would be lying if I said it doesn’t still hurt, and even though we just passed the year anniversary of her death, I still imagine that I will see her when I go to her house. I still open our texts on my phone that I haven’t deleted. I still want her to see the milestones in my life. I haven’t accepted that she won’t be there, but I can’t let that stop me from reaching the potential she knew I had.
Today, I sewed a stuffed monkey. He’s wearing a blue floral suit and has green ears because I ran out of fabric. My grandma would’ve loved him. She would have loved that I sewed him from scratch, using the sewing machine she used to teach me back when we all lived under one roof. Most of all, I think she would have loved to see that I am sewing again, even if it reminds me of her and hurts.
I read a Stephen king book yesterday. He was her favorite author. She would have loved that I tried out the genre even though I didn’t like it. She would have loved that I finally finished it after leaving it sit for months because it smelled like her house.
She would have loved to see me remembering her and not allowing it to stop me. She believed in my potential and I want to live up to it. I have just realized that I can be proud of the small steps I take in the direction of healing in addition to the big goals. I want to grow from her memory, not let it hold me back. My future will always carry a melancholy because she won’t be there, but I will have a future nonetheless.