You’re Not There
I had a question for you one day. I don’t remember now what the question was, but it was something I knew you’d know the answer to. I thought to myself, ‘as soon as I get home, I’ll call and ask –‘ But then I remembered that I couldn’t call and ask you anything because you’re not there. I tried not to dwell on that fact, as it always makes me sad. I moved on with the day, then the week, then the month, trying hard to ignore the pain that comes when I think about it too much.
A few weeks passed, and something happened. Some little event in my life that I just couldn’t wait to get home and call you to share with you. But the smile slipped from my face as I once again realized that I couldn’t call you and share anything with you. Because you’re not there. It was harder to push aside that time, but I did. I somehow managed to carry on with the day, then the week, and the weeks since. But it’s always there, nagging at my mind.
I know you’re not there. I’ve known it all along. But is saddens me greatly to think about it, so I try my best not to. Sometimes, it slips in and tears spring immediately to my eyes. I blink rapidly, hoping no one has noticed. It’s hard. Harder than I thought it would be. I know that at some point, I will find myself overwhelmed and will almost certainly break down and fall apart. And the worst part is that after it’s over, I can’t even call you and talk to you about it because you’re not there.
I miss you, Grandma.