06 2 / 2012
My pamaw and mamaw, my mother’s parents, have been dead for nine and seven years.
Sometimes I know it’s been that long.
Other times something will hit me — a scent, a photo, a piece of jewelry I inherited — and suddenly I am a sobbing mess; mourning their loss again as though it were still new.
It leaves me gasping for breath as I realize, as though for the first time, I’ll never smell them, hold them, tell them I love them again.
The pain becomes a fresh thing and I can’t breathe. My heart hurts so.
This happens regularly to me regarding my own Grandparents.
(Source: volatileessence)
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