Losing Her

I was two when my grandfather died. A two-year-old is too young to understand the loss of a person. Too young to feel the weight of the grief death leaves behind. But I remember sleeping with my mother’s face cupped in my small hands every night after that, so maybe I didn’t exactly understand grief at that time but I did know loss, enough of it to be terrified of losing someone again. That fear dwindled as I grew up, memories already blurring, leaving their remains until they just became a part of the past that lost its magnitude with age.