I regret not being there when my grandpa passed that December evening. I was the second last person he saw before he went, but on his third year anniversary, I was the first person he saw. I walked through the manicured hedges and lines of tombstones to the familiar marker of my grandpa. It was midday, but no flowers adorned the tomb aside from the ones I had brought. Why wasn’t anybody else visiting? I hardly ever cry. It’s rare anybody has ever seen me cry. But the one time that I cry without fail is at the foot of my grandpa’s grave. I’ll sit and talk, apologize, lament, and pretend he can hear me. I cried extra knowing nobody had visited so far but me.
I love Christmas, but am always boggled by how lonely and sad it makes me feel. Tonight is no exception, as I sit sipping tea, listening to Adele while blogging away in my empty bed in my empty apartment. But it’s not me who I feel sad for, but for the ones I love but couldn’t save.