A few weeks ago, reality strangled fiction. Never before had I wished so hard the two could be reversed since my pen can only revise fiction. I’d rewrite it so loss wouldn’t take place, or if it had to, then all the main characters would be there in time and express their love and admiration without reservation, pride or any other obstacle to raw honesty.
I have no regrets regarding expression. My grandmother knew my feelings for her, I never kept them a secret. My regrets lie in time not spent. One extra phone call. Would it really have been so hard? A few extra minutes just sharing a quiet moment. What I wouldn’t give for the chance at both now. Though, I know, we can never do all we wish we could with someone, no matter how much we adore them.
And now, four weeks to the day since it happened, I still feel the pain and the sadness and, in a way, hope I always do to some degree. I never want to forget what she meant to me or how it felt/feels to lose her. She was that special and her loss is a reminder of how precious all we have truly is.
And yet, life continues. My story, however, has suffered severe neglect. It’s a new month, a new day, and for my grandmother, I need to make this story succeed. She’d always ask how I was doing with my book. And I’d always say, “I’m working on it, Grandma.” Well, I haven’t worked on it in a while but now is the time to roll up the sleeves and have at it again. She wanted me to succeed. She wanted to know about the stories I was creating, the characters’ problems, the happily ever after. She knew it was fiction, knew happily-ever-after is not a real thing, but suspended disbelief because she believed in me. So. I have a story to write. Characters to torture. Happily-ever-afters to create. And when the muse wants a day off, I’ll just remember the promise and have at it again.
I’m working on it, Grandma. For you. And it’s gonna be great.