This letter would be yours right now. You’d be reading it and crying, thinking “Why did I have to go?” but, there isn’t an address to where I want this letter to go.
I miss you Grandma, every day I miss you. I drive by your old house and I miss you. I remember Sunday night dinners at your house and I miss you.
I know you hate the internet, but maybe this is how I can get this to you. Maybe you can see the internet in Heaven, where you are right now.
You may have done some bad things, and made some bad choices, but that’s where you’d be.
You would have this letter printed in the most legible handwriting I could manage, which would still look like a boy’s chicken scratch handwriting like you used to call it. But heaven doesn’t have an address, so I couldn’t mail it to you.
I love you. And every time I eat a rolo, or a hardcandy, or drink a diet coke, because you never bought anything else. Even in your last months of life when you got to stage 4, when the nurses and doctors told you to eat healthier. You never did.
I remember you. I miss you. So damn cancer. Damn all the lives it take. God damnit I hate cancer. I hate it because it took you. I want you back. Through all the years of childhood when everyone had their grandparents standing proud at the front of the class, I had no one.
So grandma, I just wanted to let you know I remembered you. How you’re frail, and short, just like me. How your house always smelled like cigarette smoke and butterscotch. How Ian and I hid all those rolos so we would always have some. I remember. I just felt like I should let you know.