When I was younger, I had always wanted to be older than I was. In Elementary, I wanted to be in Jr. High. In Jr. High, I wanted to be in high school. In high school I wanted to be in college, to which I'm in now. But growing up, there's a side people don't tell you much about. The side of loss.
My grandmother had always told me to not wish my life away. And today, I find myself wishing to go back.
To go back to the days where before work in the early morning, my mom would drop me off at your house. To go back to eating mac n cheese while sitting on a stool in between you and papa. Or when I'll sit on Papa's lap, wearing the orange creamiscle knitted blanket while watching the Price is Right.
To go back to the days of you in your sewing room, and myself at a little table, sewing myself, as you taught me all the different techniques and helping me make a couple quilts.
Back to the Halloweens where my siblings and I would get our first treat from you every year or when you would hand-make our costumes. To the Thanksgivings spent at our house with you guys. To the family Christmas parties where you made sure all us bees in our beehive got a present. To the birthday celebrations, the band concerts, and graduation ceremonies you sat through.
To go back to the nights spent at your house, to go back with you in your chair and myself in the other, watching The Walton's. To go back to you teaching me how to read and write cursive.
To go back to the naps I took at your place , with Gigi cuddled up next to me, and Lizzy cuddled up on your lap.
To go back to Peach Festivals spent at your place, especially the most recent one, which ended up being the last.
I was only 10 when Papa passed. I didn't get a chance to really say goodbye to him and I was absolutely devastated.
But 10 years and 4 months later on a warm, sunny September day, we gathered at the hospital, unknowing the outcome that was to come. We hoped for the best and the doctors had told us that they could reverse the effects.
But the next morning in class I get the dreaded text, "We're taking her off the vent." Immediately I left campus and drove to the hospital, in denial that this was happening.
We prayed by your bedside with the Pastor, hand in hand. We sat vigil for three days and my father and I spent the night on Saturday. You passed on a Sunday. The next Sunday after you and I were enjoying peach pie together. I can't come to terms with that.
We gathered at the church. The church that is filled with many joyous memories is now a place for mourning. We gathered in a familiar town, at a familiar cemetery, at a familiar grave. Underneath the oak tree, with blue skies and the breeze swaying, we said "see you again."
It's rough not being able to swing by to your house and chat, or even take the trash out for you, or mowing your lawn. It hurts not being able to hear your voice when I call, the number is now disconnected. It's devastating knowing you won't be at the family Christmas party in your usual seat in the kitchen next to the appetizers.
But it was more difficult watching you suffer. Watching you not be the independent woman you once were. Watching you be trapped in the house, not being able to walk much. And I know you're happier, you're free and making quilts again and probably even making Papa some mac 'n' cheese. You're in a better place.
As I go on with life, trying to move on from this loss, I won't wish my life away. I'll be thinking of you always, and I know I'll see you again.
