A letter written to a lost relative six months after the funeral. This pulls extremely heavily from my life.

It's something written quickly so pardon the grammatical inconsistency. I wanted to throw this out there. There will NOT be a TXT version

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6 Months Ago

       I can’t believe it’s been six months since I last saw you. You looked different, unrecognizable. It still hadn’t sunk in that the person I knew was gone. Knowing you still feels like a stretch. I was too young to know a version of you that was unaffected by this disease. How could I? I was always drawn to her more. You always kept quiet.

       There’s still whispers of the memories before you found out about your condition. I certainly remember the day it sunk in how bad it really was. Even then, you lived on leaning on her to survive. She remembered everything for you, what you loved, what you needed. She even drove you to the doctor after you couldn’t drive anymore.

       It’s so hard to truly verbalize the words, even in writing. Alzheimer’s is devastating for the family. I watched as it drew rifts in the family that continue to go unmentioned, silent lines between people who won’t talk about them. I watched how she grew tired, the light in her eyes fading with every visit to your place. Not only did this disease rot away your mind, a state I pray I never have to experience, but your age quickly tore down your body. It’s hard to remember a time when I even saw you out of bed.

       I remember the day you forgot to pick us up. You weren’t even aware enough to pick up the phone when we called. When you finally came, we’d been waiting for hours. I remember how you started to scream in the car when she drove. She was always so careful. I don’t even know why it terrified you so much. I remember how my father basically moved in with you and her when she was hurt. You couldn’t care for her anymore.

       Not long after that, you two moved up north to be closer to the rest of us. It hurt so much on that move-in day. I remember riding over to the new place after school and find out that you had fallen. You were so stubborn. You refused to be helped as much as possible. I remember how much you yelled at all of us. I remember how hours later my father arrived and forced you to take some action for yourself. I remember when the ambulance came and how stubborn you were to let them help you. I remember him taking you in his car. You broke your hip.

       Things never really got back to normal after that. You started to wander, sitting on the porch and watching people build the neighborhood around you. For a while, you could still walk, but that didn’t last long. Soon you were reluctantly using a walker. Later still you were resigned to a wheeled chair. It didn’t have the big wheels for you to propel yourself. You were too far gone for that. You had to be pushed everywhere and helped into bed.

       I remember the times I had to help pick you up from the floor because you failed to sit down properly. I remember her pained expressions of sadness and fear every time you fell or yelled.

       Later, you became bedridden. You entered hospice care. That’s when everything felt like it accelerated. You forgot me. She had to reintroduce me to you every time I visited. As she continued to age, she called on help right to your house to care for you and clean you when she no longer could.

       I remember the day you died. That morning was happy. I was happy at church with my friends. Not long after I got home did I hear the phone ring. I still remember her hollow voice echoing in my ear. You had passed away.

       I remember calling my parents, just telling them to meet me at your place as soon as possible. I remember when I got there, how everyone’s faces seemed blank yet solemn. I remember feeling the cold, lifeless skin of your face with my own hand. I remember when we called my brother, how quickly his voice got cut off by gasps and sniffles, barely holding back the tears and sobs yet to come. I remember when he arrived, how much of a wreck he was, yet I still stood just as blank and solemn as the rest.

       I remember when your youngest returned, his wife being the last person of that branch of our family to see you alive. I can only imagine how heartbreaking it must have been to realize that anything he might have had to say to you would never reach your ears.

       The month between your death and service became a blur. Only snippets of bigger moments flashing in my mind. I remember hearing about how much paperwork had to be taken care of. I remember her planning for a simple graveside service, just for family.

       I remember the morning we left for Kansas. I remember how stressed my father was, how irritable we all were. I remember the long and quiet drive. I remember when we rolled up to the graveyard, how open and full of sunlight it was. I wondered about how small it was. I remember the slow and painful realization that she will join you one day with another trip to that lonely yard. I can’t bear to think about that day. She means so much to me.

       I still wonder why I was the ONLY grandchild who attended the service. Why didn’t my brother come? Why didn’t my cousin want to ride with us on the way to Kansas? The others were far too busy and far away to really come.

       I still remember the gravestones with relatives I never got to meet. I remember the infant grave from so long ago. I shudder to think of the struggles in life back in the early 1900s. I still don’t know why that infant’s death still hangs over the family to this day. Not like a haunting, but a constant solemn reminder of life’s tragedies.

       I remember finally starting to break down at your death. I finally started to cry, even if it wasn’t long. Since then, I’ve quietly looked into grief, how everyone reacts so differently and never quite in the same way. It’s been six months and yet I still find myself amidst the dark clouds of grief. It hasn’t been alone, the familiar grey clouds of depression looming over my head. There are days that neither obscure my vision, but they’ve always returned to some degree or another.

       I remember the stories she’s told me about you. With you gone, she seeks comfort in conversation with everyone. She sits alone in that house with no one to love or talk to. Visits from all of us are more frequent, but I don’t think it’s enough for her. It probably won’t ever be enough for her.

       At the end of all of this, here I am, writing a letter to someone I hardly knew and yet still grieve for. Late at night I continue to wonder about you. I look forward to seeing you again someday.