“I love you.”
Her words to me—some of her last to anybody before she fell into an alive sleep, then stuttering and side-stepping into passing. She held on until she couldn’t anymore. Even though I wasn’t with her when she left, I will carry these words with me to remind myself that love is one of the most powerful things in the world. Capable of changing people’s universe. Making hope possible. And despite darkness, there is always a light. This is my living and breathing way to walk into every room like I have good news. And there is good news.
A letter written to my grandmother on her birthday, October 24.
Dear Yia Yia,
Today would have been your 94th birthday. I miss you more every day—deeply and unapologetically. I’m learning to be okay with the grief that sticks to my bones when I realize you’re not here anymore. I’m embracing the space that you no longer physically occupy in this world. What I’ve learned from you in the 26 years that I got to spend with you in this life is this: love with such a depth, such a fierce softness. Be able to to show up for people, to create a space for them, to value them despite whatever story the past tells about them.
You always loved people well, sometimes more than they deserved, and I’ve held that close to me as a reminder of what bright days look like despite the darkness. ‘Because there will be darkness’, you’d say. There will be rain. There will be moments where we don’t feel like ourselves, where we feel like we’re too much. There will be times when we feel unlovable. But you always reminded people that there’s a light, no matter how small.
I remember the way you loved your family. You never minced words when it came to this. No matter where we were at in the world or how many miles away we were from one another, you always reminded us about what’s important: family, people, the way we navigate the world and what we carry with us, and love love love.
I want you to know that I will always carry you with me.
Happy birthday, Yia Yia.
I love you, too.