Better Late than Never is Just a Damn Lie Sometimes

Today is my Granny’s birthday. She passed almost a year ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. No, that’s not completely accurate. I don’t just think about her, I REMEMBER her. She is everywhere around me. I have her scarves and a couple of her handbags and I smell them weekly. I breathe them in because they bring the same sense of safety they did when I went to her house after school. The same reassurance I felt snuggled up next to her in her super duper, ornately decorated bed with the skyhigh headboard.

But taking in her fragrance is bittersweet and a self-imposed pennance. See, as articulate as I can be, I certainly wasn’t when it counted; when it counted with her. We chatted, but not enough. I visited, but not nearly enough. And that was foolish. And it can’t be changed. And therein lies the quandry.

I never said goodbye before she left. And so, I lifted up in words everything I loved and cherished about her at the memorial. And every day or so, I find myself saying something to her, stroking her framed photo, staring at her image saved on my iPad. And this remembrance is never a resolution. I fill the air with the words I didn’t say, and the gestures I never made when I could have. But I’m late. And I’m guilty. And I just have to work through it. Every day.

So I keep her things tucked away where they won’t lose her scent. And I apologize and ask her forgiveness, and stay close to God like she taught me. And knowing God is merciful, I will see her again, and my love won’t be late. It will be right on time.

Happy Birthday, Granny. For me, you live.



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