I won’t be cliché and say that God needed you more than I did. I won't say that He wouldn’t give me anything that I can’t handle because I would rather you be here, with me. It may be selfish of me to feel this way, but it’s the truth. When you died, I did not want to be comforted or consoled. I knew better than to listen to people when they would insensitively say “It’ll be okay” because I already knew that I’d never be “okay” again, because being "okay" meant having you. I never believed people when they said, “It gets easier” because I knew living without you will never be easy. It didn't take me long to realize that losing such an important part of you never gets any easier. I simply learned to live with the pain, eventually becoming numb to it.
It’s been a long four years that you’ve been gone. I usually allow August 8th to pass me by because to me acknowledging the date you left has never been soothing. Back in 2011 I was preparing to enter my senior year of high school, now I’m preparing to enter my senior year of college and it's nostalgic. It hurts even more now because that’s one more accomplishment you aren’t here to celebrate with me. I recall a conversation we had when I was 12-years-old and you said to me, "I hope I'm here when you graduate." Never would I have imagined six years later I'd be facing that reality.
I wanted you here to see me do the things you motivated me to do. I wanted you to see your “school girl” become your “college girl”. I wanted you to see me get married. I wanted you to be at the hospital when I have my children, like you were when I was born. I wanted you to see me become successful. I wanted to buy you that black Cadillac that you always talked about getting. I wanted the chance to repay you for everything you ever did for me.
But through it all, I just miss you. I miss being able to come sit on your lap when I was little. I miss you buying me my book bag for school every year. I miss coming over to your house watching Maury, but not before I poured you a tall glass of Faygo Coke. I miss the way you’d tap your feet and rock to Robin Thicke. I miss giving you new school pictures to go on your refrigerator. I miss your humor. I miss your facial expressions. I miss how brutally honest you were. I miss your laugh. I miss everything about you. And while I miss all of these things, it’s your presence, and your wisdom that I miss the most.
Deep in my heart, I really do know that God doesn’t make any mistakes, but I can’t help but feel like you weren’t supposed to leave Earth the way you did. You were so selfless. You were a giver. You cared about the people around you, constantly going out of your way to make sure people had everything they could ever need. How ironic is it that the cancer took so much from you when you constantly poured into others?
Four years later, I can't say that my mind has fully processed the fact that you aren't coming back. Maybe I still haven't accepted it and perhaps I never will. Although I'm thankful I have the memories, I wish I could make more. But if I know you like I think I do, you're somewhere with your husband, your son, and your dog, eating spaghetti, watching Judge Mathis, flipping through your Avon books, and most of all you're happy. And knowing that you're happy gives me some sense of peace.
Your Lady Bug loves you Grandma, and I know that you knew that.