My grandmother passed away today. It wasn’t an unexpected thing. She was 82 years old and severely depressed after her partner in life, my aunt, passed away last December. She was very strong and very brave to have lasted as long as she did. I’ve quickly learned that the thing about death is that it’s more about the living—because the dead are dead, no matter how they got there. My grandmother lived a good life, and she was at peace in her final moments. It’s the living I find myself crying for—my mother, my brothers, my uncle, myself… But I want to believe that this time I can do right by her memory and not fall apart.
Watch me not fall apart.