Today would have been your 92nd birthday, but we lost you two and a half years ago to the day. I miss you more than I would have ever expected.
It was supposed to be a normal weekend. I was across the country for my college visit, and then I got the call. You couldn’t breathe, you were refusing treatment. You were tired of fighting it. My worst fears were coming true. You were dying and I was gone, my one stipulation for choosing the college I was visiting. I had seen you just the week before. If only you knew what a terrible grandchild I was. It was 7 am, on a Sunday morning and I was the most hungover I had ever been in my 17-year-old life. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t know why I had to be there so early, “Couldn’t this visit had waited until I got back from my senior trip?” I asked myself. And that’s the last time I saw you alive. And I regret it every day.
After I finish my master’s degree, I’m getting a tattoo in your honor. I know you would hate it, but maybe the physical pain of that needle against my ribs will dull the emotional pain I fight every day. Maybe that’ll help me prove to myself that I’m not the most terrible grandchild in the world. I’m in tears as I write this.
I’m coming to see your grave tomorrow and leave you roses.
I wish instead I could be coming with a pie to your retirement home to tell you happy birthday.
I love you so much and miss you more and more every day.