“There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them,' 
my mother explained shortly before she left me. 
'If you can remember me, I will be with you always.”

― Isabel Allende, Eva Luna

The sadness comes in waves. Usually the waves are fairly infrequent, but when they do hit, they pack more of a punch than a steady tide continually washing in and out of the shore would.  

Losing someone you have known your whole entire life is difficult to explain. Although those that survive the deceased should be happy their loved ones are now out of pain and in a better place, it is hard not to feel like a small piece of you was buried along with them.

For me, it’s the small things that remind me of my grandparents’ absence in my life…

The Sunday afternoon phone calls I received every single week that no longer come.

My new habit of lighting a candle every weekend at Mass.

The fact that after losing my Grandfather I now light two – the new addition always right next to the one I've been lighting for my Grandmother for the past year.

Every time I put on and take off the golden locket that frequently hangs around my neck.

Whenever I open the locket and see parts of love notes my grandfather wrote to my grandmother while they were dating.

Whenever I pick my nails or bite my lip because a little voice in my head reminds me that both are “terrible and unattractive habits.”

Their messages still sit in my voicemail box and my Pop’s cell phone is still on my speed dial list (both of which you would find terribly impressive if you knew my grandparents and their hesitance toward modern technology).  

Although every time one of these things happen I am reminded of the loss my family has experienced, I am also reminded that these all stem from memories I had the chance to experience with them, and that is something I am thankful for.

Even though it was hard to accept that we would be losing my Pop just one year after my Grandma, we knew deep down that every day he spent with us was one more day he was away from her – and if you knew them, that was no small sacrifice.

How are you supposed to know what to say to someone you love when you know for a fact it is the last time you will ever speak to them?

I didn't. None of us did.

So instead of saying all of the thoughts that were swirling around in my head and making my chest tight with grief, I told him I loved him. And then I hummed the lullaby my grandmother use to sing to all of us grandchildren when we were younger.

Waiting with the rest of my family after saying our final goodbyes was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. It was almost like the minute we walked out of his room and stepped out into the hallway we were accepting the fact that my grandfather was going to die.

After we all assembled in different positions around the big double doors leading to the ICU, the tears began to fall. But then shortly after, our tears were replaced with laughter.

“You know what?” one of us said, “I bet Poppie has it coming to him when he gets to heaven’s gates. You know Grandma is probably standing there next to Peter, hands on her hips, asking him why he made her wait so damn long!”

It was in that moment – seated on the cold, white linoleum tile floor of the hospital – that the healing began. Half laughing and half crying, surrounded by my loved ones, I realized I’d gladly accept that a small part of me would be gone forever in exchange for the ability to carry their memory with me wherever I go.