📞 The Call I Couldn’t Make

I tried to call you last night, Grandma. You weren’t there, and I was painfully reminded again that you’re gone. The absence of your voice—steady, warm, and always reassuring—left a hollow ache that time has yet to fill.

It wasn’t a special occasion, just a regular evening when life felt heavy, and I needed the comfort that our chats always brought. You had this way of making even the smallest worries seem manageable, offering wisdom disguised as everyday advice. You words always carried the weight of a lifetime of experience.

As I sat there with my phone in hand, I realized how often I still reach for you in moments of uncertainty, in moments of fear. I miss your laugh. I miss listening to stories of your younger days. It’s funny how, when someone is here, we take those moments for granted. We never imagine they might be gone someday.

Grief is strange like that—it sneaks up in the quietest moments. You think you’re okay, that you’ve made peace with the loss, and then a simple impulse, like dialing a number, shatters the illusion.

But last night wasn’t just about missing you. It was about wanting to share feelings, to ask for advice.

Instead, I sat in the stillness and thought about all the things I wish I’d said when I still had the chance. Did I thank you enough for being one of the best parts of my life? Did I ever tell you how much your stories influenced who I am? I hope you knew, but I still wish I’d said it more.

So now, I’m writing this for you — or maybe for me. To remind myself that even though I can’t call you anymore, I can — and do — carry you with me every day. You’re not just a memory; you’re a part of me.

I’ll probably keep reaching for my phone on hard days. But maybe that’s okay. It’s my way of keeping our connection alive. And I know you’re listening.