I remember losing you. The pain exploded in my chest like shrapnel, destroying my whole world with two simple words -- "She's gone."  I didn't get to be there. Daddy told me not to come, afraid it would frighten you if I flew ten thousand miles to be by your side in those final days.  Walking around my home after I hung up the phone, feeling like an orphaned child, I hardly recognised the adult woman reflected in the bathroom mirror. You were gone. Who was I now?

It's been eight years. Why does it feel as wrong today as the day you left? Does the grief ever really go away? No, it doesn't and I understand that now. I'm still learning to live without you, and sometimes it's easier if I just remember. . . .

I remember the sweet fragrance of your perfume as you lean down to kiss me goodnight. I am seven, or eight, or maybe ten, but you still come in to say goodnight and kiss my cheek. I feel warm, and loved, and safe. I thought you were the prettiest woman in the whole world, and perhaps, because I did, you were. 

I remember picking up the phone to hear your voice so many times . "Hi, honey," you'd say, and we'd talk, sometimes for hours, about life, love, grandchildren and our dreams. The last time we spoke you told me how sick you'd been. "I thought I was going to die," you said, and then went on to assure me you were doing much better. You asked me about Amber, your youngest grandchild. "She is so sweet," you said, and I could hear the love flowing through your words. I told you I loved you. It was the last time I ever heard your voice.

I remember all the times you read to me, as I was growing up. So many different worlds we explored together. Your love of stories inspired who I am today. A writer of stories, of dreams, of memories.  

I remember wondering on the night you died, if I would ever laugh again, or smile, or be happy. Of course I would, because I have your memories and the legacy of your love -- my children. Your granddaughter, Krystal, recorded and sang, Wind Beneath My Wings, at your funeral -- a reflection of the wonderful Nan you were. I look at the quilts and teddy-bears you created and gifted to your grandchildren, and I remember your love once more. As if I could ever really forget.

I remember the night, four years later, that God allowed me to visit you for a few brief moments, to show me you were alive in the spirit, waiting for us in heaven, in a more amazing, incredible place than I could have ever imagined. You told me you were so happy, and never lonely, because you knew we would be together again forever one day. 

I remember losing you and finding you once more, and yet . . . it still hurts to remember losing you.