Love you so

Love you so. They were the words my grandmother ended every phone call, letter and conversation with. Love you so. She wouldn't let an opportunity pass to tell you how much she loved you and cared about you. As I put on my makeup this morning and listen to soft Christian songs, I knew that today was going to be hard and emotionally draining. When I walked downstairs in my grandma's house waiting for a ride, I kept expecting to hear her voice in the other room or tell me how beautiful I looked, but her voice never came. 

I lasted about three minutes into mass before the tears started coming. The opening song was Be Not Afraid; when I opened my mouth to sing a sudden rush of memories of my grandma came flooding into my mind. It hit me like a brick wall. Her voice. Her singing, so quite, yet beautiful. She meant every word she said, even the words in a song. I could hear her complimenting my singing voice and a lovely smile upon her face. Yet there I stood. Frozen. I couldn't utter a word. 

My brother was my rock.  He had his arm around my shoulders for practically the entire ceremony. I watched as my older male cousins brought in grandma's casket, my younger cousin read the first reading, my four youngest cousins brought up the gifts, my older cousin sang the responsorial, and my other cousins read the prayers of the faithful. Everyone wanted to celebrate Gram's life. My mother's lifelong friend, Monsignor Dave, gave a meditation at the end of the ceremony that was so beautiful and personal to our family. 

Then it was my turn. I listened and waited while another one of my cousins read his eulogy. I was fine. When I stood up behind the pulpit and looked out at the crowd that had gathered, I was overcome with emotion. The church was packed! Every pew was full. There must have been 200-250 people there to celebrate Gram's life. It wasn't the nerves, but rather the realization that I wished like anything that Gram could have been sitting in the second row (her usual seat) to hear me speak. I wanted her there to not only hear how I viewed her, but to give me confidence and happiness. I knew that she was there looking down on me, but I wanted her physically there. And I'll never have that again. 

Sitting in her house talking with my aunts, uncles, and cousins, I was happy to be with family and build more memories. Yet when I finally had a moment alone, every emotion that I had suppressed to try to be strong for my mother and to get through my eulogy came bubbling to the surface. I had to escape to my room before I lost it. As I sit in one of the smallest bedrooms in the house (think 8x6ft, if that) and hear all of my family laughing over a story and yelling over a lost game of Euchre, I am finally coming to terms with the fact that this might be one of my last, if not my last, time in 67 Cotton St. I'm not ok with that. I'm not ready. I have spent every Christmas here since I was born and the majority of my summers growing up. This is home. This is Grammy's house. I just can't. I'm not ready to say goodbye.