I'm sorry.

There's nothing else I can say.

The last four years of your life have been unspeakable, and I'm so sorry, that I can't help but only remember you in this way.

Please, forgive me. I recall everything.
It hurts, that's all.

Taking a trip down memory lane petrifies me quite honestly. Yet I do it every time, indulging in the memory until the knife's edge sinks so deep— I am punctured by the reasons for why those memories ended in the first place.

I recall all the times I was little, roaming in your house that we had to sell. I broke my nose on your coffee table. You introduced me to my first paint by numbers set. I thought I heard someone on the rooftops the night before Christmas when I still believed in reindeers. You made me fall in love with cook books and handwritten recipes. You held me when I would cry for parents I haven't seen in days, all because I was visiting you.

It's ridiculous now—thinking about it. But I—

I can't help but think about it.

Some days, my mind tricks itself into thinking I can still hold conversations with you. Even though we lived miles away, sometimes I think your voice still exists. Then I remember you haven't been here for six months.

Within moments of the day, it just doesn't feel like your gone. You're actually gone. You're gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone, Gone, G O N E. What a strange predicament that is this word and feeling.

And you're gone.
And I can't feel it.

I was only able to cry the first day. Not for long though, because everyone was watching me, and I am usually always the put-together friend.

Afterwords when it sunk in deeper, the initial shock faded and everything became tasteless.

The world was a bland mess.
My mind is a mess.

I tried searching for the snow globe in your house....

It's not there. No one knows where it is. I've  searched everywhere. It's been breaking me. A portion of my childhood is in that snow globe.

Do you remember?

You would hold it up to me when I cried for the stupidest things. You held it upon my face, turning the golden knob, and we would both watch as the white horse stood firm against the snow storm as a sad, yet beautiful melody played in sync with our tears. Your voice, reassuring me that everything will be alright, fading into the music. It's a beautiful melody that I will never hear again.

What am I suppose to do with that?

I started collecting snow globes because of you. For all the places I travel to. So although, the collection is small and growing, I feel it to be mighty.

By the end of your years, you didn't remember me when you passed.

It does not mean the stories of us no longer lived in your mind. They were just simply stored away from you to watch later. In peace.

It wasn't a choice, it's just what happens when you get old, but it didn't change you. I recall all the sassy commentary, all the slick remarks. You may have looked white as a sheet, thin as it too, but your smile and azure eyes were sharp with wit.

You're somewhere more kind than Earth.

A place without pathos.

Where you can simply glow, grandma. Just like you were born to do. Just like you taught me.

t.n