Death. Death is one thing that brings never ending grieving. Everyone dies, we all have our time. When someone in your family dies, especially if he/she is close to you, you can't help but sob and curl into one tiny ball. Yes, we can move on. Yes, we still love them. But once in a while, even if you're a fully grown adult, after twenty years, you won't have the power to stop the pain stirring inside of yourself when you see your backyard where you and your father used to play catch.
Four years ago, this day was one of my bluest. The plain grim look on my family members' faces when I walked into that waiting room at St. Luke's is crystal clear. And then on the 24th of December 2011, a few minutes till midnight, I felt a new kind of pain, the unexplainable one that rarely hits you, but when it does, it's more than strong. Because I lost someone I love. My grandpa.
I cannot forget the little moments I had with him. How he bought me an inflatable penguin when we were about to go to his house. How we played pretend school with my cousin. How I used to scratch his back. How I called him on our old landline just so he could go to our house to watch my shows. How he went to my graduation day in preschool and bought be a bearista from Starbucks. How I said I love you one last time at the hospital.
But I know that this isn't the end. Despite how we all feel, despite the tears, pain, and grieving, I know it isn't. It's unbearable to face the fact that we can't see or talk to my grandpa anymore, but I hold onto the fact that he is just watching us, that there is no end. That he is still there for us, smiling with God.
I love you Dada. We miss you.
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