❄️ A Memory That Lingers

It’s a relatively fresh memory that comes out of nowhere — a fleeting, beautiful moment from the last day I saw her, now wrapped in bittersweet pain.

The pastor from our church brought a small group of carolers to the assisted living center. My memory of the exact songs they sang is now a blur, but I know the first was Silent Night, one of Grandma’s favorites.

She was declining quickly that day. She couldn’t hear well anymore and had trouble recognizing many of us. But she could hear the singing. She knew the words and tried to sing along as best she could to every song.

It’s Silent Night that’s affecting me the most. Not just today, but since I watched her sing along. This song will never be the same for me. And while this memory is one I’ll always hold onto, right now, it stings. It opens the floodgates all over again, and I can’t get myself to stop thinking about it.

The smallest details always hit the hardest. These tiny echoes of the past sneak up on me, catching me off guard every time. That’s the thing about grief: it doesn’t stay neatly in the past. It lingers, weaving its way into the present forever and ever.

But as painful as this moment is right now, it’s also a gift, even if it doesn’t feel like it. I’m reminded of the closeness Grandma and I shared, the person she was, and the happiness she brought to my life, even on the bad days.

This memory of Grandma singing along to Christmas carols? It’s more than just a reminder of her absence; it’s a testament to her presence, her vibrancy, and her spirit.