My Grandma, on my Mom’s side.
I keep missing her.
I keep missing her as in, I’ll think of her, and then realize a piece of my life-puzzle is gone, a piece out of my Christmas can’t be found, error message 404.
We see our future like the definition of a line: it has a definite beginning point, and extends infinitely. Intellectually we know we’ll die one day, but it’s always way out there, both for ourselves and for others we know. It’s difficult to recategorize someone as from now on, only existing in your past.
No memorial is planned. So this is mine.