Grief is a part of life that I had never experienced in depth before. Two weeks ago, my grandmother passed away, and I still find myself trying to search for a normal that doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Writing has always been a passion. I might not always have something to say, and a lot of my stories live in my head; few make it onto paper or to a national publication. Writing has also served as therapy, and these words are reality, from a pure heart that still feels the ache. My grandmother was life for me during the past twenty seven years. My mother was a single parent and my grandmother was like having a second parent. The memories I have are endless and this world’s day to day matters just don’t seem as important. Anxiety used to be one of my biggest struggles; that battle has dissipated without explanation.

I keep waiting for the day when I won’t hear her voice in my head.  I remember everything about her: her laugh, her one of a kind voice, and her undying love of pizza. I recall her attending almost every single school function. Chorus concerts. Plays. Valentine’s Day parties. Field days. The hilarious explanation she had when her bra strap always fell down to be visible with anything she wore – she told everyone that she was born with a crooked shoulder.

A grieving writer has a difficult time trying to write. We are always full of words, yet I myself have found that I have no current motivation. I keep waiting for the day when I won’t think of her every hour of every day, a moment where I won’t replay the last time I saw her. I was blessed to have spent her last morning with her; she passed that evening.

My point is short and sweet, but how can one find normal again after such a huge piece of them is missing? Does the heart change forever? My grandmother lived a long ninety one years and loved her Savior, so there is some comfort in knowing that we will see each other again one day. I’m not sure about this world we live in, but I am prepared to wait for that day with patience.