I Love You GG

The hardest goodbye is the goodbye you don’t get to say. The one that lingers with you forever.

The funeral home was cloaked in a heavy stillness, broken only by the distant hum of an old organ. Soft whispers and muffled sobs floated through the dimly lit room, weaving into the scent of lilies, wax, and the aged wood of the pews. At the front of the room, Grandma lay in her casket, surrounded by bouquets and framed photographs that chronicled a life filled with love and quiet resilience. Her hands, now cold and still, clutched a rosary, the same one she used to hold during her nightly prayers.

I lingered at the back, half-hidden in the shadows, my body rigid and unmoving. People drifted around me like ghosts, offering condolences, and sharing memories, but their faces were blurred and their voices distant like echoes. My chest felt tight, my eyes stung with tears I refused to let fall. 

Every attempt to take a step forward felt like wading through quicksand. The weight of regret sat heavy on my chest, constricting every breath. I wanted to disappear. To go home and call grandma, to realize this had all been a bad dream and that I hadn’t run out of time. 

It had been months since I last saw her. College had swallowed me whole—deadlines, exams, endless responsibilities—all those things I had convinced myself were so important. Her calls had gone unanswered. Her invitations dismissed with half-hearted promises of “soon.” Now, “soon” would never come.

My mother appeared beside me, her face pale and hollowed by grief. “Do you want to go up?” she asked softly, her voice trembling.

I nodded, but my feet felt fused to the floor. Eventually, I forced myself forward, each step slow and heavy, like my body instinctively wanted to turn and run. When I reached the casket, the sight of her stole the air from my lungs.

“Hi, Grandma,” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the moment. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her face was serene, almost like she was sleeping, but it wasn’t her. The gentle spark, the warmth, the life that defined her—it was all gone. Her hands, the same hands that used to braid my hair and hold mine when I was scared, were lifeless. I reached out hesitantly, my fingers grazing hers. They were so cold.

Memories surged through me, each one sharper and more painful than the last: the way she laughed when we baked cookies together, how she sang hymns while rocking on the porch swing, the way she called me her “little star.” Each memory carried a cruel edge, reminding me of every missed call, every declined visit, every moment I chose something else over her.

“I should have been here,” I choked out, tears streaming freely now. “I should have called more. I should have visited. I thought we had more time. I thought...”

But time doesn’t wait. It doesn’t care about promises or good intentions.

The service continued, and I sat stiffly in the front row, clutching a delicate handkerchief embroidered with her initials. The pastor spoke about her kindness, her unwavering faith, and her quiet strength. But his words felt distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears and the relentless ache in my chest. Every tribute, every kind word spoken about her, felt like another weight pressing down on me.

After the service, I went to the cemetery. The rain was falling steadily now, each drop splashing against the earth as I made my way toward her grave. The sky seemed to be mourning with me, its gray clouds a reflection of the heaviness in my heart.

The cemetery felt so empty, so quiet, as if the world itself had paused for this moment. The headstone stood tall, weathered, and resolute. I knelt down, my hands trembling as I placed a hand on the cold stone.

I thought about her house and how different it would feel once I went back. The unfinished knitting projects that would be laying around, her slippers still sat next to her favorite chair. The smell of her lavender lotion lingering in the air, a scent I would try to hold on to forever. 

I tried to push the thoughts away and focus on the now. Taking in every moment sitting here at her grave trying to convince myself it counts, that sitting here talking into the empty air is no different than sitting on the porch swing together, watching the beautiful summer sun set into the horizon while she listens to my childish stories. 

“I love you, Grandma,” I whispered into the rain, my voice barely audible over the storm. “I’m so sorry. I hope you know that. I hope you knew that.”

The wind howled, carrying my words away, but it felt as though the earth beneath me listened. As the rain soaked through my clothes, I stood there for what felt like an eternity, unable to move, unable to say goodbye.

The hardest goodbye wasn’t the one in the funeral home, or even the one spoken into the twilight air. It was the goodbye I never got to say—the one stuck in unanswered phone calls, unopened letters, and moments I can never get back.

Guilt is a heavy thing to carry. It clings to you, gnaws at you, whispers cruel reminders when the night grows quiet. But amidst the weight of regret, there’s love. Love that doesn’t fade, love that lives in memories, in stories, in quiet moments where the world feels still.

I carry her with me now—in every choice I make, every act of kindness, every quiet evening under a painted sky. And I hope, wherever she is, she knows. I hope she knows I loved her, even when I didn’t show it enough. Even when I thought I had more time.

The hardest goodbye was the goodbye I never got to say, and I will carry it with me forever.