The Unsent Letters

Tag: grief

  • Reflections on Grief: A Tribute to My Grandpa

    My dearest grandpa,

    It has been a year. More than a year now since I’ve lost you.
    I’ve just noticed that even writing “grandpa” still somehow hurts. I felt a tremor in my heart. It’s hard to describe.
    The grief… What a weird thing to experience, don’t you think? I know you went through it countless times. The one that hurt the most was your brother, wasn’t it? He gave his last breath in your arms. What an infinite connection you had to carry a lifetime.
    Mine is simpler, grandpa. I feel like an impostor about it.
    And I sometimes wish I had asked you more about your grief. Maybe it would help me now. But how could I? I chose to accept that you were carrying sorrow for the loved ones you lost. That was that. No more questions needed. No more pain needed. This was the standard that I was taught.

    I was 14 months old when my parents left me in your and Grandma’s care. It marked the beginning of a lifelong sense of abandonment, but you both made it bearable. I formed a connection with you rather than with my parents. You were there for me through everything.

    Eventually, I grew up, left the country. A grown-up doing grown-up stuff. One of the best universities in the world. I had to live up to the standard. I had to be something. I suffocated in my anxiety for years, and I neglected you. I should’ve called you more. I should’ve spent time with you instead of studying in my room during the holidays. I spent the last years of your life studying and worrying about the future by myself. I spent so much time on things that don’t matter that I lost the time I could have had with you.

    I changed schools, and I lost you. Now I ask myself, what is life even? What matters the most here? Why did I choose to be that person? Why?

    I had to take breaks writing this to distract myself. Even after a year, it feels so heavy. It is hard to carry, Grandpa.

    No one warns us about the grief as people. It is something that everyone eventually experiences, but no one openly talks about it. At least that’s how I went through it. No one warned me how painful it would be, and how that pain would forever stay, no matter what you do. It comes at the most abrupt times. I find myself thinking about what could have happened differently, at times that I should not even be thinking of something like that. I thought it would get easier. I thought I would get used to it. At least that’s what they said to me. But no one talks about the part where we start missing the ones we lost. I miss talking to you, Grandpa. I miss being with you. I still find it difficult to accept your death, but I have been dealing with it for over a year now, so I have become accustomed to navigating through it. However, I miss you more each day. This is something that will never get better over time. I will inevitably miss you. I will feel your absence every day. My eyes will always wander around the room to see you smiling on my birthdays. I will search through the audience to show you my diploma at my graduation. I will look for your teary eyes in the crowd when I say my vows. I will try to hear your laughter when I tell a joke. I will always need you. Inevitably.

    You should know that I find so much beauty in grief now, Grandpa, as something we experience collectively with every living being. We feel each other’s pain, and our hearts hurt for others. I hope your heart doesn’t hurt for mine. I hope you are free from all your pains now.
    And I hope you know how much I appreciate you. I wish I had said it more. I owe you my childhood. I thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
    I love you, Grandpa.
    Have a good time until we meet again. I cannot wait to tell you about the rest of my life.

    With love,
    Your daughter.

  • Cherished Memories of a Brother: A Love That Lasts

    Dear Brother,

    I am the age you were when you died.
    A shiver ran down my spine as I wrote that. Death and 22 just sound brutal together. I suppose you would agree.
    I was 3 that day.
    People are surprised when I tell them about you. They don’t believe me when I say I remember you. But I do. At least you should believe it. I remember how you soothed me when I cried, the games we played together, and the toys you brought me. I recall how safe and loved you made me feel. It was such a pure love that, to this day, I search for it everywhere. I look for the love you gave me unconditionally in places that won’t even accept me. I am an older sister. I know how you loved me as an older brother. My older brother. How I yearn for your kind love. How did it disappear so swiftly from the physical world?
    I remember reading a book that contained a story about the main character’s sister. She described this sister as someone so peculiar, so naive, so pure. She was so different from the rest; she was so much herself. Then, suddenly, she died in a car accident at a very young age. Just like you. The main character made sense of the situation by saying, “Some people are too impossible for this world.”
    You were one of those people. Your kind heart left its mark on a 3-year-old who still cries for you to this day.
    You were not a good fit for this world. It pains me to say that. To think that.
    I contemplate the things left undone. I think about your girlfriend you left behind. Could she be married now? Does she still miss you? I think about your friends. I watched the videos they made for you.
    People loved you. I loved you.
    When you died, they told me you were building a playground for me in heaven, and when the time comes, we would meet again. It still brings tears to my cheeks. For a very long time, I believed that, can you imagine?
    But, you know, if there is a heaven, I hope you are building the biggest playground for us, for the sake of the times we could not spend together. I hope I meet you there.
    Today, I am the age you were when you died, brother.
    Your absence hurts.

    And I love you,

    Your beloved.