My paternal grandmother, Harriet Clarke Barry, passed away on August 8, 2015 in her favorite place (and mine as well), Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Her socks and cardigan were both matching orange; she made sure of it. And I'm positive she was wearing something dog-related, arguably the overarching theme of not only her clothing and extensive art collection, but entire life. I couldn't help but notice the irony of her passing in the "Dog Days" of summer. I think she would have appreciated that observation.

I can only begin to list what she left behind: an adoring family (who was also, it's worth noting, quite tolerant of her plethora of quirks), a sweet, tubby Cairn terrier named Archie, an eclectic and impressive assortment of dog-themed art, clothes, and jewelry, a beautiful apartment in the Back Bay of Boston. But the thing that I felt I inherited most from her death was a sense of missed opportunity. Dreams not realized. Trips never taken. Stories never told. Experiences never shared. Words never said.

Before I continue, I feel obligated to mention that I realize this is, not to be dismissive or belittling of her passing, almost a rite of passage. I had heard friends speak of nearly identical experiences losing loved ones throughout my entire life. I had dutifully consoled and sympathized, even attending a handful of funerals throughout the years. But at 20 years old, my grandmother was my very first true loss. The first death that I completely understood. The first death of a person I truly had known and loved. It's nearly impossible to describe witnessing this facet of the human experience from a different angle for the first time. I had watched friends lose grandmothers and grandfathers; I had even watched my own maternal grandfather lose his battle with Alzheimer's disease. But it was my turn to really experience the circle of life, and I don't think I could have ever been emotionally ready for it. Losing her was the most painful thing that I had ever experienced.

I largely credit my grandmother for instilling in me a love for travel and desire to visit unfamiliar countries, which subsequently developed into my obsession with foreign languages. She was a complete jet-setter. I don't even think she could name all the countries she had been to. With each trek abroad, she would gift me with a different souvenir upon her arrival. I still have a gorgeous, vibrantly colored cloth doll from her trip to Peru. She taught me to put the muñeca quitapenas, or "worry dolls," that she had bought in Mexico under my pillow if I was ever anxious at night and would dutifully use them. I used those dolls constantly: from the night before my first real date in middle school to the night before my road test to receive my driver's license all the way up until the night before I left for college. An authentic flamenco dress she had purchased in Spain had served as my Halloween costume in first grade. And with each souvenir I received, I promised myself that I would one day visit the land of its origin. With Harriet, of course.

As a full-time student, sufferer of chronic illness, and broke young adult, travel was not really an option for me until quite recently when all the proverbial pieces of the puzzle of my life began to fall into place. I spent all of my formative years lusting over France and Italy and Brazil and China, admiring all such destinations from afar. I didn't worry about time because in my scope of the world back then, it didn't exist. I had all the time in the world to go wherever I wanted, and Grandma would always be there to join me.

With her death came the jarring realization that I would never travel the world with her. She would never be able to take me to the various little shops and stands where she had purchased those gifts for me when I was a little girl. I would never be able to ride a camel with her like in all those pictures she had proudly shown me of her trip to Egypt. I would never sip wine with her on a terrace in Rome. I had lost my hypothetical travel companion, with whom I had spent my entire life up to that point concocting imaginary adventures.

As with all loss, time softened the piercing daily ache, and I was able to continue on. I miss her nearly every time I cuddle with Archie, who my immediate family has adopted as our own, or wear bright orange or red (her favorite colors). But I learned how to swallow reality and move forward.

Everything about her death really changed for me when I spent the past Thanksgiving in her old apartment in Boston. My personal spiritual beliefs have always prevented me from believing in any sort of afterlife or the existence of any sort of, for lack of a better word, ghosts. Prior, I had fervently believed in the fact that humans exist in this present dimension and time and no other. Irregardless, when I stayed in her home, I was completely seized by what I could only assume was her presence. I truly cannot fully explain it. Call me crazy, but she was there. I know she was. Her energy was with me, influencing my intuition, driving my decisions in a passive sort of way. I don't all of the sudden believe in ghosts, but her energy was alive and well and accompanied me the entire trip.

I am currently studying abroad in Madrid, Spain, my very first big excursion. Prior to my departure from the United States, as I was waiting at the gate, I consciously lamented her absence. I wished that she could have advised me on her favorite restaurants in Madrid or a day trip that she would recommend. I also longed for her comfort and assurance that the flight would, in fact, not crash, as she was a seasoned traveler and could assuage my fears that came with being such a neurotic amateur.

Nevertheless, I arrived in Madrid without a hitch, navigated my way to the apartment at which I was staying, and was greeted by none other than Harriet. I swear. The walls of my new abode are liberally lined with peculiar and avant-garde art, there were photos of dogs plastered along the hallway, and all of the decor in my bedroom was accented with the color red. It was the Spanish equivalent of her Back Bay apartment that she had decorated with such care and thought. She would have adored this place. Her presence with me was so strong upon my arrival, I felt like I could have leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I can't believe we're here! Isn't this amazing?!"

I am no longer so unrelentingly opposed to the idea of spirits and transcendent energies. I have accepted and welcomed my grandmother's presence in my life, regardless of whether it's a true phenomenon or a construct of my psyche. She has brought me such comfort and direction on my journey here in Spain. As arguably the biggest chocoholic to ever live, I feel like she has guided me to the best bakeries and chocolate shops in Madrid. Just when I think I'm lost, I somehow instinctually find my way. And she doesn't let me go more than 10 minutes without running into a friendly dog on the street, which is pretty crucial for my mental health, I'd say.

I miss my grandmother every day. During her life, she shaped me in a profound way. She taught me how to knit and bake, how to love dogs and art, and how not to behave in a restaurant (admittedly, she was a blunt and impatient lady at times). She was many things: my friend, my teacher, my critic, but also one of my biggest fans. And while she was never my literal travel guide, I can honestly say that I am so grateful to finally be able to travel with Harriet.