“I didn’t want to forget — I was afraid of forgetting how he sounded.”
When I first heard the news about my grandfather’s passing, I didn’t have the luxury to sit with my emotions.
My brother called while I was in a hotel room, and after telling my dad and half-sister, I let myself cry for a couple of hours.
But life didn’t stop—I had to rebook flights, email my professors, and wrap up my life in Boston.
I had to pack, close my bank account, and say goodbye to the city I had called home during my exchange.
It distracted me, but underneath, the grief lingered.
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J... He left...
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I asked to write his eulogy. I wrote it on the plane.
I’m not someone who journals often, but putting my thoughts into words helped me make sense of what I was feeling.
Writing the eulogy gave me space to reflect—not just on his death but on what he meant to me, and by the time I arrived at the wake, I had already started to process my emotions.
Before the wake, I had to wake my grandmother up from her nap. When she woke up, she started crying
I will never forget the sound of her crying.
After he passed, a lot of people avoided the subject because they thought I wanted to avoid it.
But I wanted to talk about him and memories about him.
I didn't want to forget. I was afraid of forgetting how he sounded.
Through this experience, I learned that I can grieve and function at the same time.
My life didn’t collapse, even though I missed him deeply. He taught me to be brave, and I’ve held onto that.
I’ve also realized that grief doesn’t always look like tears; sometimes, it’s in the quiet moments when I write or when I let myself remember.
And while others often focused on how he died, I’ve chosen to remember how he lived.
