Grief doesn’t come gently for me. It feels like stepping into darkness and missing a stair that was always there before.
My grandmother, Catherine, wasn’t just family — she was the place I landed when the world felt unsteady. With her, I never had to earn love. I just existed, and that was enough.
Standing beside her casket last week, I felt like I was breathing with only half my lungs.
The funeral home lights were soft, almost flattering. Her silver hair was styled just the way she liked it, and her pearl necklace rested against her collarbone. She looked peaceful. Smaller somehow.
I ran my fingers along the polished wood and let the memories come. Only a month ago we’d been in her kitchen, flour dusting the counter, her showing me the exact way to fold sugar cookie dough.
“Emerald, sweetheart, she’s watching over you now,” Mrs. Anderson whispered, squeezing my shoulder. “She never stopped talking about her precious girl.”
I tried to smile. “Do you remember her apple pies? The whole street could smell when it was Sunday.”