The night I received the heartbreaking news of my grandpa’s departure, I clung to the phone, crying alongside my mom and my sister. “He’s in heaven now, ” my mom whispered. I couldn’t believe he was gone.
Between the gasps, I questioned the injustice of the universe for taking him away so soon. I thought we’d get the chance to see him again. Later that night, I curled up on my couch and I sipped on a cup of hot cocoa trying to find comfort as tears rolled down my cheeks. I’ve never experienced grief like this. Heartbreak? Yes. Physical pain? Of course. But this is unlike any pain I’ve ever felt before. My heart is heavy with the weight of his absence and it aches in a way I never thought possible. He’s gone. My brain can’t comprehend it. My world feels dimmer.
My grandpa was my fearless guide through my storms – metaphorically and literally. He taught me that lightning is beautiful, not scary (I had an irrational fear of thunderstorms growing up.) During a thunderstorm, we’d watch the sky dance with colors. “See,” he’d say, “it’s just lightning, God’s creation is beautiful.” He was an honest, God-fearing man.
He’d often take me up to the roof of his home to look through his telescope. He shared with me the secrets of the universe. He’d get so excited over sunsets, the moon, and the stars. If you know me, you know these are the things I live for. I chase every sunset I can, and it’s because of him.
As a child, I remember tracing the titles in his book collection – “Star Wars,” “Moby Dick,” “Othello,” and encyclopedias that held the keys to boundless knowledge. He taught me that reading was the best escape. I can still see him seated in my childhood living room, immersed in the pages of books he loved.
He taught me to be curious and work hard. He had such an entrepreneurial spirit. He definitely passed that on to me, and I often wondered about his life before us. What were his dreams growing up? What did he aspire to be? He unquestionably carved a transformative path for his own kids, my sister, and me.
I feel grateful to have known someone as extraordinary as him, grateful that I had the chance to be loved unconditionally. That I had a glimpse of a normal childhood because of him. I’m still processing that he’s gone. That I won’t get to hug him or hear his voice again. Or simply enjoy his presence during family gatherings. The reality that I won’t see him riding his bike down the quaint streets of San Miguel de Allende anymore is a hard pill to swallow. He embodied a spirit of freedom and joy.
Grief, for me, is a cup of hot cocoa, it’s a bittersweet reflection of the void my grandpa left behind. In its warmth I find the courage to navigate my life without him.
Serotonin + Co. 