So there’s my grandma. Grand Jan. Who always said what she thought. Who always let you know when your grammar was incorrect. Who always encouraged you to use “The King’s English”. Who always shushed you if you said even a single word during jeopardy. Who always gave you random cash. Who always let you know how much she loved you.

And my grandpa. Papa Don. Who lived his life to the fullest: golfing, traveling, voyaging, experiencing, laughing, loving. Who’s brain started withering away the day he turned 80. Who couldn’t remember my own name. Who had a stroke in bed next to his loving wife. Who spent his last days in a hospital bed. Who’s eyes, in those last dreadful days, would only light up at the sound of your laughter. Who died at the first instant that his three girls weren’t at his side.

He was 82.
   
   

And my mother. Parentless. Unguided. Who was in so much pain that she tried not to show. Who thought we couldn’t see it, but we could. Who thought she was the only one. Who thought we should all compensate for her. Who was ignorant to the pain that was felt by all. Felt by those. Felt by you. Who claimed that she had it the worst. Who had no idea. Who had no idea how the pain eroded your happiness. How it silenced your laughter. How it shaded your light. How it bridled your love.

I’ve forgotten to love. What it truly means. What it takes. How to show it. I drift through the days. Going through the motions. Not really thinking. Not really feeling. I stand apart from others. Still within the masses, but not the same as the others. I stand apart. Trying to find a way to love again. To find a way to feel again. To find the piece of me that went missing the day he passed. Just trying, so that one day I can join again. Join in the laughter and happiness. The happiness of those who mean the most to me. Those who I wish to love again.