She was no more than a blur the first time I saw her, and she already loved me. She must have said it a million times, but the psychologically challenged a** that I am probably never said it back. I’m sure she knew though—I hope she did.
The religion I was brought up in, teaches that I will be able to uphold my promise of seeing her again. I disagree with this religion in so many points only the hypocrite part of me actually acknowledges still being a part of it, but I really do hope they’re right about this.
What hurts the most is probably not the fact that I won’t be seeing her again, though; life is only the preamble of death after all. No, what hurts the most is not being there for the others—the others she loved and who loved her. Those who stood by her to say goodbye. Those whom I envy and at the same time don’t want to be a part of, because I’m pretty convinced that, as hard as it may be, being 5000 miles away does make it easier.
To my Grandmother, who raised five beautiful children and many more grandchildren. Who lived a selfless life and probably helped many more people than she even imagined. I love you and I hope I will be able, in the time that I am given, to have the impact you had in the world.