Saying Goodbye to Grandma I just came back from my grandma's house about an hour ago with my brother Chris, and he just left to go back to Toledo. It's the first time I've been alone this week (truly) and maybe even the first time I've ever been alone in this house. Being an introvert, I have been craving time alone to process, but now that it's finally here, I have to admit, I haven't felt this alone for a very, very long time. Today was really hard. Harder than I ever expected, I must say. The last couple days, seeing my grandma lying there, part of me just expected her to wake up. To me, I don't know if it's because I didn't see her sick, but she just seemed like she was sleeping. I kept, unconsciously, wanting to go up to her and hug her. I kept wanting her to grab my wrists, like she always did, and tell me how much she loved me. Every time I've been home, beyond my parents and brothers, she's been number one on my priority list of people to spend time with. And, honestly, I miss her. I really, really miss her. Like I said, I didn't expect this to be this hard, but it is. It hurts so bad. When they closed the casket today after her funeral, I just wanted to yell, "Not yet! I'm not ready!" I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. I'm not ready for that part of my life to end. I never wanted it to end. But end it must. Just like all in life. The pain will lessen. Time will heal. But right now it hurts a lot. A poem I have often thought of this week, made significant by special time spent with my dear friend Adriane: John Donne: Death Be not Proud Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.