It's been two years since the hardest day of my life, and that fact alone is pretty mind-blowing to me. It's still hard for me to process that my grandma isn't here anymore, and that so much has changed in just two years. It's hard for me to realize how different things are, when I can still relive that day like it was yesterday.
I remember waking up that morning with this overwhelming sense of peace and I was just so calm and I knew everything would be okay, even when it wasn't. I went to school, as usual, and came home to my dad--since my mom had been spending a lot of time at the hospital. He told me I'd have to babysit that night, since they wanted all the siblings and spouses up there, and I thought nothing of it. The day progressed as usual, and somehow, I just knew something was happening. My parents came home around 8 or 9, and sat us all down in the living room. And I knew, I just knew, that she was gone. We went down to my aunt Sheron's house for who knows what, and my cousin Lauren, who was three at the time, came up to me.
"Our grandma died, Ashley. But she's happy now! And we can see her later!"
Simple testimonies are always the sweetest.
The tears started, and certainly didn't end, there.
I babysat my cousins the next day while the siblings figured things out at the mortuary, and as far as I can remember, everything was fine with the cousins. People got along, kids behaved, and I know for a fact that my grandma was there.
The night of the viewing, I stayed home with the little kids. Emi came over after a little while,and wrote me a note that I still have by my bed. Bronson came over, and I met his mom for the first time. (Note to everyone out there: if you ever want to make a good impression on a boy's parents, a boy who you happen to like at the time, it's best if you don't do it while grieving. I'm sure Karen was less than impressed with my mascara stained face, swollen eyes, and inability to control anything.) While we were talking on the front porch, one of my chickens got out, and I just couldn't catch it. I completely lost it, and broke down sobbing in front of my best friend and his mom--who was a stranger until five minutes prior--they both gave me a hug, and reminded me that everything would be OK, and then left. If I learned anything that weekend, it was just how much friends and family can change your outlook on a situation, and make you feel like the circumstances are survivable.
At the graveside service later, we had bagpipes playing--the main reason I can't listen to them now without crying--and someone handed me 15 white balloons, one for each of the grandkids.
I gathered all my cousins around me, and passed out the balloons. I could barely control myself long enough to count to three, but we managed, and released the balloons together.
I have never felt such an incredible feeling of peace and comfort as I did right then, as I stared straight up into the rain-filled sky, and watched those balloons disappear into the clouds. There is an image seared into my head of me holding onto Andy for dear life with his arm around my shoulder, and staring at those disappearing balloons like my life depended on it. I don't know if he really said anything, but I distinctly remember hearing a whisper of, "Ash, what are we going to do now? What are we going to do?" and an overwhelming sense of everything will be OK replace my miserable tears with tears of peace.
My grandma was my hero, for a variety of reasons, but mainly because she was the ultimate example of love, endurance, and charity. She taught me how to leave behind a Christ-like example, and left a legacy that I am honored to follow. Her example has taught me more than I'll ever understand about selfless service, enduring to the end, and celestial goals.
One of her favorite quotes was, "We can do hard things," and if I've learned anything from the hurt of the last two years, it's the validity of that statement.
I can do hard things.
When you lose someone you love, it leaves a gaping hole that takes what seems like forever to heal. But, "sometimes you have to be apart from people you love, but that doesn't make you love them any less. Sometimes it makes you love them more."
I know that I will see my grandma again, and I know that she's where she's supposed to be. But every fifth of May--and everyday in between--I know I'll take a minute and remember the greatest hero I had, and the legacy she left for me to follow.
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