November 8, 2017

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Things do fall apart

November 8, 2017

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Things do fall apart

November 8, 2017

Dear Grandpa,


I thought I’d be able to escape it. Sitting here, misty-eyed and mortified, I thought I’d be able to say “I prayed and everything” without explaining the time when the outcome didn’t work out in my favor. I almost pulled it off too. I almost convinced myself I’d be able to finish this book without explaining how your death left this gaping hole in the middle of my chest. I tried to weasel my way out of that.


I thought I’d be able to convey or least explain how things may fall apart and, in the same breath, tell them how life doesn’t truly start until you understand the concept of resilience. I thought I could tell them that, without the part about the wheels falling off. Without the part about the nights spent at the bottom of my closet lying under a pile of dirty clothes strewn about just to make it a little less uncomfortable. Without the part about having to leave the house with the fak-est smile and having to duck out of rooms because it’s not cool to cry in public. But I can’t.


They only gave me 3 days bereavement, you know? They only gave me 3 days to wipe the tears, get off the floor, and to move forward, to move on. Because life doesn’t stop, oddly enough. But yours did. And now I’m here, trying to calculate how much pain is left from the 10,764 days we shared minus the 3 for grieving. And, I tried, grandpa.


I tried to exude strength by not talking about you or the 13 other people who departed shortly after you drew your last breath. But this grief…this profound sorrow, this immensely debilitating heartache is still with me, gnawing on my bones. And now as I close in, as time draws near for my new book to be released to the world, I’m struggling because it’s not finished. I have to write about you dying. My laptop is still drying from the last time I tried.


I’ll keep at it though. Promise.




Warmest regards,





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Atlanta, Georgia

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