A million tiny moments

We're accepting an offer on Grandma's house.

People die slowly. Did you know that? In bits and pieces. They're not gone all at once. I mean, they're gone, but we don't know it, not until something clicks. And then it's like a baseball bat to the face.

On Wednesday night I hit my head. Hard enough to make me cry from physical pain. I rarely cry from physical pain. Emotional, all the time. But I'm surprisingly tough when it comes to bumps and bruises. I was shocked that tears were streaming down my face, and it kind of freaked me out. Which made me cry even harder, until I was practically hyperventilating. As I was sitting against my bed clutching my head in my hands, I looked up and saw the framed picture of Grandma that sits on my dresser. I knew normally I would have called her for some Grandma sympathy - there is no higher-quality sympathy in the world. I could hear her voice in my head.

Yesterday I was going through my cell contact list deleting people's numbers. People I never call or no longer speak to. I scrolled down to Grandma's number, appropriately labled "Grandma". I don't think I'll ever delete it.

When someone is so integrated into your life it's not possible to let go all at once. Because there's just too much to let go of. Mookie said it best when he responded to my sobs about the house sale with "I know just how you feel. It's almost like we're just taking care of the house for a while until Grandma comes back."

Mookie and I haven't always seen eye to eye in life, especially not in emotional matters. But I knew he actually did understand just how I was feeling. For a moment I was struck by our father-daughter bond. It's a bond that Grandma had encouraged and facilitated at every opportunity - she'd always wanted me to be close to Mookie.

Everywhere, little pieces.