Whenever someone finds out that my grandmother very recently passed away, it never fails, I always get a sympathetic pat on the back and a “I’m sorry for your loss.” It crossed my mind that this action may hurt because it can seem insincere, but I’m starting to see that it’s something else. I feel like people assume that since she was my grandmother, she was old and senile and that death was eminent. But that’s far from the truth. My grandmomma was alive. And I don’t mean in the sense that she was a walking, breathing person. I mean, she was alive in the fact that she really lived. In her seemingly short 71 years, she never once held punches. The countless stories I have of her doing hilarious, none-grandma stuff would no doubt shock many. From burning my granddad’s car a la ‘Waiting to Exhale’ style from eloquently calling an Asian cashier a bitch for an obviously racist comment. And that’s not even the half of it. She was wild, honest and slightly off her rocker; everything I could ever hope to be & more..

I wish I could explain to every single person I’ve ever met or going to meet exactly how special she is to me. I refuse to use past tense because her affect on me will last until my last day. To know me is to know her, in a sense. She & my mom used to always joke, saying how they each gave birth to their mothers, me being grumpy and outspoken like my grandma & my mother being strong and more timid like hers. But I am so proud of that. She taught me to be the ridiculous, outlandish person that I am. I remember asking her just in December if it was a little too much to wear a total of 6 rings on my hands. She said, “Baby, you can do whatever you want.” And I’ve taken that to heart. I can do whatever I could possibly want to do. & I know she’d be proud of any of my decisions as long as they were my own & I was happy.

So, when the 28th of every month rolls around and that hole in my heart seems to reopen worse than before, I’ll try my best to remember that she lives through me so really, she’ll never be gone.