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June 22, 2010 Leave a comment

This is fair warning to those of you who read the post directly below this one.

My grandmother died one year ago today. It was my first experience with death (and being that I’m almost 22, I consider myself somewhat lucky.)

But I miss her. And I needed to commemorate this day in some way. And since there’s no large body of water nearby (this is the damn desert after all) upon which I could set afloat a letter or something, this is the route I decided to go.

So I’m sending out this letter into cyberspace, just so I know it’s out there.

I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.

I’m sorry if it makes you feel like I’m exposing too much.

Just deal with it.

Categories: Uncategorized

Dear Mimi.

June 22, 2010 1 comment

It’s been a year since you left us peacefully, and still my heart hurts.

The day I got the phone call, I knew. I saw my dad’s number on caller ID and saw what time it was (8:26 a.m., June 22, 2009 ) and wanted to ignore the call. I wanted to do anything to avoid the news. When hit by the news I lay still, waiting for the waves of pain. But they didn’t come then, Mimi. I got up and worked out, let my boyfriend know and went to class. I went to work that evening and pretended I was OK. I joked with my coworkers and ignored the roaring sound in my head. I found a poem I wanted to read at your funeral.

I thought that would make it all OK.

Now a year later, I pray you’re still here. I still carry the angel wings a family member gave me the day of your funeral, and I have to believe that you, my beautiful grandmother, are my angel.

You looked after me when I was a child, and I know that you have to still be looking over my shoulder today, whispering softly that you love me.

I hope you know how much I miss you. I hope you know that, even though I gave the world and my family a different reason for it, I read the poem at your funeral as an apology to you.

An apology for not loving you the way that you loved me: unconditionally. The disease terrified me, Mimi. I was so young and didn’t know how to handle what was happening to your body and your previously sharp mind.

If I could re-do those years (for my sake, selfishly—I would never want you to go through that again) I would smile and blow you a kiss when you looked me at me.

I would hold your hand when we visited.

I wouldn’t focus on the TV instead of you.

I hope you know I miss you. What I remember most about you is cuddling on your lap on the nights I slept over and your and Papa’s house. I felt so safe there. You let me snuggle with you and I loved being wrapped in your arms while Papa told me an Angelina story. I never let anyone else hold me that way when I was young.

I have to make those few memories I have of you strong, because I can’t bear to think of you in any other way.

Mimi, you were the epitome of true beauty. Every person I’ve met who knew you said you were a beautiful person, inside and out. You had the uncanny ability to make other people feel special and you had the most radiant smile. I love looking at old photographs of you. I love my baby pictures and seeing myself wrapped up in your arms.

When I see something beautiful it always me think of you. Maybe you’re part of it—maybe now you’re in the wind, making the trees blow gently. Maybe you’re in the soft rain that patters on my window in Boston, or in the way the sun dapples the grass. On sunny days I stare at the sky and wonder if you’re in the clouds, watching over me. When I feel the wind rushing past my face in West Texas I pretend you’re in the air, giving me a kiss on my cheek as you race by.

When something happens to me, good or bad, I always think of you. Maybe it’s because you stopped knowing me when I was young and immature, sweet Mimi. I want you to know me and be proud of me now. That sounds so selfish, but it’s absolutely true.   

I’m always thinking of you, sweet Mimi.

Just remember.

June 17, 2010 2 comments

So, as I suspected it might be, my time away from my blog was short-lived.

I thought that by ending my blog I could just live my life, instead of narrating it for those I love. Which, if you think about it, is a little pointless considering I talk to most of my friends quite frequently.

My reason for deciding to begin writing on this thing is simple: I had a jolt. I saw something that moved me earlier, and my fingers ached to be at my computer, typing madly enough to get my thoughts down before they left my brain.

I had to wait an hour or so, but here I am. Back.

And that’s my problem these days. I’m back. Back in the place I used to hate, and striving to make it better than last time. I’m enjoying my job and I’m spending time with friends I missed so dearly the last two months.

Do you remember this day? The day where I saw a bumper sticker that made me smile and made me list stupid things about myself? It made me re-evaluate why I wanted to move to Boston and made me…not question…but think very hard about what I wanted to do come January 2010.

Well today, I saw that same damn bumper sticker. I was stopped at a light, listening to music, looked up and at the car in front of me. And what do you think I saw? It was the same car. The same bumper sticker with the same message that always makes me tear up a little.

It made me smile because it was another one of those small little signs that I needed. I needed to see that and read it and remind myself what makes me me.

One of my favorite bloggers, Her, wrote a post recently that makes me cry. I go back and read it frequently, because she and her husband seem to feel the same way that I do about our 20s: We all feel a little lost sometimes and unsure of what the next move is. What the correct move should be. It’s never easy, and we’re all finding that there’s never a clear-cut yes or no answer. I think we’re figuring out that sometimes it’s better to take a leap of faith and jump–and then figure out things once you land.

That’s what I’ve done in my life. I moved to Boston. I moved back to take a great job.

Now? Now I’m making plans to leap again. Not anytime soon; not for another year. But it’s going to happen again. I like being the adventurous girl; the one with the spirit and the guts and the passion and the drive.

And I’m going to continue reminding myself one thing:

It’s OK to feel lost in life. I just have to keep in mind I’m the girl with the damn wanderlust.

The end.

June 3, 2010 1 comment

I think it’s time to put this blog to rest. It’s been a good run.

For you privileged few, I’ll keep you updated on where I end up in the blogosphere.

Other than that, thanks for reading. It’s been good.

Categories: Uncategorized