Grief is inevitable. Grief will inescapably come to visit everyone at some stage in their life. It can project itself in many ways, it differs from person to person and how you choose to deal with it. To some, grief is a comfort, a constant reminder of how you felt about that person yet, to others, grief is the persistent notice that they are no longer with you and that they left a gaping hole in your life.

I don’t think I ever truly grieved over you the way I was meant to, they say you’re to grieve in your own way, for as long as you need too, how you need to. But I don’t feel like I ever did it right. It was too long a process or maybe it was too rushed. Grief to me is like an open wound, you have to put a plaster on, if you rip that plaster off too quickly it’s going to sting but if you slowly take your time it will hurt for longer. Some say that you are still with us, my gran’s spirit carries on in us. When we have drinks and say “I’ve only had two”, that’s you, when anyone watches tennis, that’s you, whenever we see a robin, that is you and whenever we sing along to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’, that is you. 

Sometimes I think the grief has left, that I’ve recovered enough to go back out and function in society, until something happens like when I’m in the car, and the song you loved rings around the four doors, causing the overwhelming feeling of grief to come out of nowhere, hitting me like a ton of bricks. Causing me to grip onto the handle by the door and attempt to regain my strength. Other times I find myself completing a normal task like folding clothes and I’ll find a top that I wore with you when we went into Edinburgh and I find myself crying in a heap of my clothes. I think I’m still unable to fathom what truly happened and each little thing reminds me of you. Grief comes knocking on my door, unexpected and uninvited and every time, I let it in. I don’t know why I allow it to step foot into wherever I am, sometimes I believe grief will comfort me like a warm blanket, but that warm blanket slowly becomes heavy and hot, suffocating me.

I cherish the times I had with you as I sit and reminisce with our family three years later. A time we can finally sit and discuss and smile at the times we will no longer have. In some ways, your leaving brought the family closer together, allowed us to gather and talk knowing we all have one thing in common; our love for you. You brought together all sides of the family, allowing precious times and funny moments to be shared from both your childhood and into your later years. The funny thing about grief is it doesn’t always project sadness, you can laugh but still be grieving. I never realised how truly close I could become with your side of our family, and how even today, three years later- we still talk more frequently than ever before. It helped to show me the large effect you had on so many people’s lives, people I’ve never met or spoken to, how many hearts you have touched and laughs you shared. Even now you have gone, you have still shown me how to become more compassionate, how to empathise, a skill I once never truly understood. You may be gone but I will never stop learning from you.

I knew you wouldn’t be around forever, but I had always dreamed of being able to rush through and show you my university acceptance letter, of being able to wave to you as I move out alone to the big city. Of having you sitting, front row at my wedding. Smiling, joyful. Of you coming over to look after my future children, and now knowing that you will only be there in spirit, crushes part of me. I knew you wouldn’t be around forever, but I hadn’t expected this to come so soon, no one can imagine or prepare for the loss of a grandparent, even if you knew it’s coming it doesn’t make the weight of it any lighter, the difficulty any easier. 

I haven’t forgotten your laugh or the smell of your perfume but it’s not as easy to recall as it used to be. I’m told that’s normal. Grief made me a prisoner, not for much longer. My sentence is almost up. Sometimes I hear your voice in words that slip from strangers tongues. I see your face as a blur in my mind. When I lost you in 2019, although we always knew it was coming- I already felt completely isolated and alone. Grief can make the most popular person feel abandoned and as if they can talk to no one, but then being forced into a country lockdown during one of the most historical global lockdowns a few months later, truly emphasised what I was already feeling. It took me away from my support network, left me alone with my thoughts. My loneliness became a deserted island, and I’m left sitting alone, looking for a way out but the grief kept me stuck and abandoned, lonely on this island in my head.

I find that I miss you the most, when I can talk about it the least, when I’m all alone in my room, left with no support group or when I can see the rest of my family tearing up over the way you left the world. Leaving me the only option of looking back through words on a page. Reflecting, not only on my memories of you but on my feelings on losing you, about knowing those memories are all I have left. You always helped me in life, built me up- fixed me when I was down, although, you leaving me may have broken me, you left me with the tools I needed to learn to put myself back together and to grow. You showed me how to make stew and dumplings, a dish that I still make today. A dish that fills my house with a familiar and welcoming scent. You taught me to have higher standards in relationships and to never just ‘settle’. Most importantly you taught me never to give up. You said to stand my ground, follow my heart and to be resilient. 

Sometimes I forget you’re truly gone. I knocked on your bedroom door once, knowing grandpa was downstairs, but I didn’t want to walk in on you unannounced until it hit me. I never forgot you, just that you’re no longer here. I remember my first Christmas without you, the tears and the silence that would usually be filled with your laughter, the overcompensation for your absence. The tears shed for you that we all know you wouldn’t want us to have but we couldn’t stop. Each christmas since then has been easier than the last, but never unchallenging. You would light up any room you walked into, but now we turn on the corner lamp every night at 10pm, in your honour. 

Grief to me is the regret of knowing I never said goodbye, it’s knowing that I will never experience your warm embrace, or hear your hearty laugh ring through the house or that although I can tell you that I love you, I’ll never hear it back. It’s unwillingly knowing that I will go to sleep tonight as normal and when I wake up, you will still be gone and I’ll be here.