It was the day after I went back to Oregon State after Thanksgiving when I arrived back in Corvallis. My mom called me, like she always does, checking up on me to make sure I got home safely and to tell me that she loved me. Twelve minutes after I received her first call, her name popped up on my phone again. My initial reaction was, “That’s weird, she must have forgotten to tell me something,” and then I felt a pit in my stomach because I had a gut feeling that the worst had happened. When I answered the phone my mom said to me, through a shaking and tear filled voice, “She’s gone…I don’t know how else to tell you.”

At first I didn’t say anything, I didn’t feel anything. My reaction to the news was nothingness. I said, “Okay,” told my mom I loved her, and sat in my dorm room surrounded by unpacked, unorganized belongings that I had brought home with me over break. I stared off into a white wall, and just stared, and stared, and stared.

Grandma, I don’t think any of us were really prepared for the pain. I spent countless months, maybe even a couple years preparing for it, but I realized soon after that this is not the kind of thing you can prepare for. If there is one thing I know now, it is entirely true that the pain never truly goes away, we just find ways of coping with it to make it seem like less. I also think that it is really easy to get wrapped up in the sadness of everything, but there is so much more to it.

Grandma, not a day goes by where something happens that I want to call you and tell you about. Some days I even unlock my phone and open the phone app only to realize you aren’t a call away anymore. From the times where I would call you broken down in tears, to when I would call you to tell you what I thought was the best news in the world, you never failed to answer. With every answer, there was a congratulation, a wise piece of advice, an “I love you,” or and “I’m so proud of you.” Not a day goes by where I don’t wish that I could just hear your voice one last time, not a single one.

I think one of the first time I truly felt a deep and painful sense of loss and sadness, grandma, was the first time I went to the coast after you passed away. It was cloudy and dumping rain the entire day until sunset. When the sun was setting, every single cloud broke and the sky was cotton candy pink, canary red, and pastel orange. As the sun set even further the sky faded into a muted purple and soft blue. The same friend that was at the coast with me that day had told me a few days earlier, “Whenever something happens that you find to be extraordinarily wonderful or beautiful, it’s your grandma. That is her way of showing you that she is still with you even if she isn’t here.” I couldn’t help but think that in that moment, it was you. But oh what I would’ve given for you to be there to see it.

Thank you, grandma, for the countless hours you spent watching Land Before Time and Spirit with me as a kid. And for all of the Christmas Eves we spent with you, I will never forget them. I will never let my memories of Easter Egg Hunts, Halloween costumes, cookie decorating, fudge making, and everything in between fade. The moments I spent with you are ones that I will forever cherish no matter how old I get.

Thank you for all of the back scratches, wise advice, forehead kisses, and hugs. What I would do to be able to hug you one last time while you sneak in a forehead kiss. Thank you for supporting me through thick and thin, and always pushing me to do my best. When i hit rock bottom, you would always be there to pick me back up, no matter what it took, and for that I thank you.

Your last Christmas with us was the single greatest Christmas I have ever had. A month before Christmas, I came up with the idea of creating a book of letters and photographs for you from every single person in our family. You always figured everything, and I mean everything, out so it took a lot of scheming and lying. For an entire month you though that I was working on a huge AP Economics presentation, that was the lie that kept the whole thing going. In my life, I’ve never been happier to give someone a gift. You told me month and month after I gave it to you that you kept rereading it and that it was so special to you. God has a funny way of working, you know. I wouldn’t have made the book if I hadn’t of gotten the feeling that it needed to be done.

I grieved, and I grieved hard and ugly, and I am still grieving. I may grieve for the rest of my life, but when I feel like it is all too much to handle I realize that you wouldn’t want us to grieve for you. You would want us to be happy and filled with love and joy and celebrate you and continue living and to accomplish every single thing we have set our hearts to. It took me so much to stay at Oregon State after you passed away, but every time I began to doubt myself I would tell myself that you wouldn’t want me to quit, you would want me to continue pursuing my dreams and being the ambitious little girl you know and love. Everyone tells me that you would be so proud of me if you could see what I’ve done. I’d like to think that is true.

Grandma, one day I asked you if you had ever talked to God. You said, “No Sweetie, but if I do, I think I will go with him.” When my mom called me, the only thing I could think to myself was, “She talked to God.” I don’t think any of us were really prepared for the pain. I spent countless months, maybe even a couple years preparing for it, but I realized soon after that this is not the kind of thing you can prepare for. If there is one thing I know now, it is entirely true that the pain never truly goes away, we just find ways of coping with it to make the pain bearable.

I could write an entire book, or even a series about the wisdom, guidance, and love that you gave me in 17 short years. You were my best friend, my biggest supporter, and my backbone when I didn’t have one. You stood up for me even when I was wrong, and boy was I wrong a lot. You pushed me when I didn’t want to try anymore. You stood behind me when I needed someone to be there to catch me. You loved me with genuinely and purely no conditions, and I love you. I love you the same way the trees love the forest, and the way the sea loves the sand. I will tell my future husband about you, my children about you, and someday far into the future, my grandchildren about you. For now, this might be goodbye, but for later, I’ll see you again.

Rest in Paradise, Grandma.

Love, your little girl