A day in the year that the first African American president was inaugurated.
A day in the year that beloved singer Michael Jackson died.
A day in the year that the swine flu killed over 18,000 people worldwide.

But most importantly, THE day that I lost one of the most important people in my life.

The walk out of my bedroom that morning is something I will never forget. My sight included my more than hysterical sister being comforted by my father, and my mother motioning me over towards her while softly whispering “Honey, we have something to tell you.”

I could tell by the look of devastation on my mother’s face that something terrible had happened. She half winced while saying “Your grandma passed away late last night.”

At only nine years old, one might not be expected to grasp the concept of loss, but I did. I was fully aware of what this meant. It meant no more Sunday dinners at our house or Thanksgivings at hers. No more staying up at grandma’s until three o’clock in the morning even though my parents said bed by ten. No more constantly being spoiled by someone who loved doing so. And most importantly, no more laughs or smiles to be shared.

About an hour later, my mom began to realize that things needed to be done. Maybe it was her way of grieving or distracting herself, but planning the calling hours, funeral, and printing an obituary became her main concern. Coming down the stairs with arms full of boxes containing photographs, she told us that it was hers, mine, and my sisters job to go through the pictures, finding old gems for the funeral home, and one for the newspaper.
Gazing at memories from my grandma’s life; her wedding, children being born and raised, to the death of her husband, every photo told a story. With the pictures came tears, sadness, joy, and laughter. Looking back, I believe that my mom had encouraged us to go through these to remind us that even though our grandma wasn’t with us physically anymore, she always would be in spirit.

After the pictures were chosen, and my mother had left to go to my aunt’s house, my dad
empathetically asked my sister and I if we were up for going to school. My, at-the-time, seventeen year old sister’s immediate reaction was a crass “NO.” Whereas myself, trying to act big and brave uttered, “I think I am okay to go.”

Moping out of gym class, my principal pulled me aside, assuring me that I was “a very brave girl for coming to school today.” However, I knew the truth behind my decision. Anywhere would’ve been better than staying home all day with nothing to do but think about the loss that had just occurred. I wasn’t “brave;” I was scared to face what had happened.

I hadn’t cried all day. Not even when I first had been told. Not even when looking at my dad, who never cries, start to sob. So one can only guess what it was about the “I’m sorry” card that one of my friends drew me that made me lose it. Immediately I began to sob mid bite of my turkey and cheese sandwich.

By that point, I think that I’d regretted going to school about as much as my parents had regretted letting me. On the drive home, I was told by my father to be “very gentil around mom tonight. This had been an extremely rough day on her.” I nodded my head in silence and turned to look out the window for the remainder of the drive, trying to figure out what would come next.

No words were spoken at the dinner table that night. No “how was your day?” had been asked. Instead, we all sat in stillness, unable to touch our food, or in my mother's case, dry her eyes. As she pushed back her plate, and rested her head down on the table while proceeding to sob some more, my father and I exchanged a look, cementing a mutual agreement that it was time for me to go upstairs.

Laying in bed that night, I had began to realize that I’d just lived my first full day without her. 2,122 days have passed since then, and not one without a thought of her. For now, all I have is the obituary that I had cut out of the paper six years ago, and all of the memories that we had shared. I guess this will have to suffice until we meet again…