01/02/2026
I held her hand,
felt the tremble of fear in her eyes,
and the weight of my own trembling chest.
I wished I could say the words
that would stop her pain,
but words weren’t enough,
and sometimes my strength would run out,
too human, too afraid.
I carried her love in my pockets,
her last kiss on my forehead,
her permission to live my life.
And yet, the thought lingers:
if I had stayed,
if I had said more, done more,
would she still be here?
Would the world bend differently?
I cried in quiet corners,
let my body speak the grief I could not hold,
and in my heart, I whispered:
I take comfort in knowing she rests in a better place now,
free from pain, free from struggle.
I will carry what I can,
and gently release what I cannot.
I am learning
that love is not perfection,
that hands can tremble
and hearts can ache
and still hold steadfast.
I am learning
that guilt is a shadow,
and memory is a light,
and in both, she is alive
in every breath I take,
in every care I give,
in every quiet act of love
that does not need to be witnessed.
— beloved granddaughter
