Dear Nana, 

I put the drawing that I never got to give you inside your coffin. My mom had posted it on Facebook, she always posts my artwork. You commented that you loved it, that you wanted me to make one for you. I decided that I would give it to you. I hadn’t made it for anyone anyways. I was going to give it to you the next time you came up to Wisconsin, or my family went down to visit in the summer like we did when I was a kid. I’m getting that drawing tattooed on me when I turn 18. 

But the bipolar climate of Wisconsin never saw you again. You were too ill to come up. I should have taken that as a sign that things weren’t going well. That I should have talked to you more. But I didn’t, I resented you. My dad is the least favorite child, and my mom was yours. So by default, on both sides, I’m the least favorite grandchild. Things like that get passed down.

 I remember being little and seeing your wallpaper. It was my cousins. My small, developing child brain was asking ‘where am I?’ It always seemed like you loved them more. But it wasn’t until it was too late, you were already gone, that I realized that wasn’t true at all. And I wasted all of the precious time I had with you. After you passed, we went into your phone. It was one of the pieces of you we still had. 

And when we went to your photos, there I was. Me. You had taken screenshots of any photo my mom put of me on her Facebook page. And you kept them. But, me? I didn’t have any special photos of you. I had deleted the picture you sent me of you wearing your new glasses for some storage space on my phone. I would kill to get that picture back. I will never, ever forgive myself for the way I was with you. I hate myself for it. What is wrong with me?

 I felt we never had a special relationship. But there are some things that I have that are special. I have a couple necklaces you made. One with a blue seahorse, one with a red elephant. I have rocks that you let me pick out from a big ‘ol bag you had. I have silver bracelets and gold necklaces that aren’t my style, but you gave them to me. I have your heart beat printed in a bottle, and a ring and necklace that you once wore.

 All of these items are in a straw basket in my bedroom. That basket, and the item’s it contains, are what I can’t live without. They’re the pieces of you I still have left. I love and miss you so much, sweetness. (That’s what you used to call me and my cousins, remember? I sure do.) 

Love,

Emmy.