4,3, what’s next 2, 1? 4 days before Christmas, 3 days before my birthday. They’re really gone. Sitting on the mantle, two vases hold hands and my grandparent’s ashes. 

I can still remember the exact moment I knew. My grandmother, Nana Sue-Sue, died on December 21st. I walked into my mom’s room after a long day of zoom after zoom. Tears stained the canvas that is her face. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “She’s gone. Nana Sue-Sue is gone.” My tears spilled over onto her shirt. 

This went on for days. Every day, I woke up and remembered what had happened. Back in February, she had a seizure, fell down the stairs, and broke her leg. At the hospital, they diagnosed her with a brain tumor. She got it removed, but it didn’t work. It was too close to her spine. The doctors said she would get better. That was a lie. My mom, brother, and I went to visit her and she was all messed up. She thought the year was 1965 and there was some type of race going on. We thought it was funny. Who knew that was the last time I would ever see her. Then, in September, she was put on hospice. In November she stopped eating, and in December, she was gone with the wind. This was the first time I’d dealt with loss since my dog passing away 8 years ago. This is when I started to hear the constant words-Don’t let go. 

This was really hard on me and my family, but it was especially hard on my grandpa. He was a stubborn man who needed her to keep him in his place. When she passed away, he didn’t know what to do. All he wanted was to sprout wings and fly to meet her. And that he tried to do. He tried to drink himself to death. He would drink full bottles of vodka and not be able to walk. He would fall on the ground, use the bathroom wherever he was- a chair, the ground, etc, and he wouldn’t eat. He was also being so mean to my mom. Anytime he called her, the curtains would fall along with the tears. Everyone deals with grief a different way, and this was his way. We had to do something about it. The stench of vodka filled up my senses all the way from Rhode Island to New Hampshire. 

2 months later, we had him settled happily in Fox Den Assisted Living. He told stories about the 100-year-old ladies that sit next to him at meals and eat like horses. He was happier than he’d been in a long time. Then came the hospital.

Grandpa Bill was admitted to the hospital with heart failure. He had problems with his heart all his life because he was an alcoholic and smoked in his early years. He was there for about a month, and then like a magician in the smoke, he disappeared. But unlike a magician, this was for good. 

On May 7th, 2021, I got home from school and I knew he was gone. My mom had gone cheerfully to work this morning, and I got home and she was in the driveway. After surviving COVID, being a firefighter, and saving lives, he was dead. I ran into my mom’s arms and started to cry. I recall the good, the bad, and the great memories I have with him. My mom and I drove to the park across the street from her childhood home. The memories surrounded us as we walked to the water’s edge. We sat by the water of Kingston lake thinking about memories of him and her. The oyster place, his gazebo, his stubbornness, and his love for his long-time partner. I thought about how Nana Sue-Sue was such a great gardener. She could keep flowers alive and beautiful until the deep of fall when everything else had fallen. She had a talent for keeping things alive and happy- my grandpa and plants alike. But, through all the happy memories, my heart was still saying don’t let go. Not yet, not now. 

I still constantly think about these two. I love them so much and it was so difficult to see them go. But, I still need to let go. That piece of my heart is still telling me- don’t let go, don’t let go. I hate to admit it, but I know it’s wrong. I love them and I cherish all the memories I had with them. Dealing with loss is hard, but sometimes all it takes is a hug. Or for me, the ticking of their grandfather clock sitting in our family room. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. It may sound like that to others but to me, it’s whispering I love you, I love you. This helps me let go.