Letters Between Sundays

Dear Heaven,

Is she up there? Is she at peace? Lord, I know you don’t have to tell me, but I wish you would. I wish you could tell me why you took my nana away from me—why you took my best friend. Lord, maybe you took her not to hurt me but to get her out of pain. Maybe you took her because you knew I could never put you first if she was here.

Every day I am reminded that I don’t have grandparents. Every day I’m reminded that my support system is only my mom. Every day I’m reminded of the pain, of the disappointment from my mom when leaving for college. I’m reminded of the fact I picked being bulimic over seeing Nana in the hospital. I would do it differently if I had another chance.

Nana, I hope you’re reading this. I hope that when you got to the gates, God saw how much you did love Him. I know we called ourselves Christians, but we weren’t disciples of God. I know you got baptized, but I don’t know if that was enough, Nana. You will never be forgotten. I don’t go a day without thinking of you. You were my second mom, you took care of me and loved me. You made me stronger, you taught me morals and values and how to be a woman. You put in all this work, Nana, and you didn’t even get to see the end result of me being an adult.

Before you died, you saw me dying with you. Being 89 pounds in the hospital, not eating, throwing up, and having no life in my body. Nana, that’s not who I am.

My friend moved into her new apartment—yesterday her grandma came to visit. I was happy that she had a grandma to call. I can’t do that. When moving into college, grandparents came and helped move their grandchildren in—you couldn’t do that. My friend called her grandma for her birthday last month. Hearing her grandma’s voice reminded me of you. Reminded me that I haven’t heard your voice in three years. Reminded me that I can’t pick up my phone and call you.

Every time I bake, I think of you, Nana. You were baking with me since I was little. Donuts, cupcakes, cakes, pastries—you did it all with me. Nana, I have an online bakery because of you. We were supposed to open it up together, but now I’m opening it up in memory of you. I hope you can see what I’m doing, Nana. I hope you’re proud of me.

You died on freshman year move-in. You told me to go even if something happened to you. I wish I didn’t go. I wish I stayed in the hospital with you and never crawled out of your hospital bed. I wish the doctors found out what was wrong and fixed it. You would be here watching me, helping me, and turning me into a young adult. Nana, you were my best friend. You were everything.

Remember us playing cards? We would play Rummy and Thirteen. Every time you went to the bathroom you would yell, “Don’t cheat, Paris,” and I would have to reshuffle because I cheated. When you got sick, we stopped playing. Remember our tea parties? I loved that you did these. Mom is still doing them.

I will never stop going to the tea parties. I still wear your jewelry, your perfume. I have your clothes and hope they still smell like you. Nana, I’m just like you. I scrapbook, cook, bake, I’ve been using your sewing machine. You got everything ready and then left before you could even use it. Everything reminds me of you. Some days I can’t even do it anymore.

Nana, I think about what you have missed being gone for three years. I would want to think you would be proud of me. I’m in my senior year of college and I’m about to graduate. With what degree? I don’t know, but I’m graduating. I gave my life to Christ. I have a loving community and a family that loves me. I would want to think that you would’ve come to church with me every Sunday.

I’m writing a book—it’s about my stalker, and I think that would’ve given you a heart attack. I bake every week. Yesterday I baked donuts for the first time, and every step, every measuring, I thought of you. I have a job, I have a lot of friends, and I help Mom out with Abijoy. You should see her, Nana—she’s so smart. No husband or kids yet, but I wish I would’ve had kids in my teens so you could meet my children. They would’ve loved you.

My sadness turns into anger, and I don’t know how to hold onto this anymore. It feels like I’m in a dream and every day it replays in my head. Sometimes I wish we didn’t joke about your death. Three months before you died, Nana, I knew what was coming. I sensed it. I don’t know what it was, but I would cry to Mom that you were dying. I made a joke saying, “Don’t kick the bucket until I graduate.” Sometimes I wish I would’ve said college graduation.

I’m very lucky that I had you. I need to be grateful for the time I did get with you. I think Mom blames me for your death. She makes these comments that just stab me. I don’t blame her. She’s your daughter, and she lost her momma. She left you in the hospital to die, so she could move me into college. I took her from you. I’m very sorry about that.

Nana, I miss making your tea for you. I miss going camping and kayaking with you. I miss going to Flavor Farm and pumpkin picking. I miss your voice and you holding me. You knew everything, and you were prepared for everything. I don’t think you were prepared for this. No one was. You were the glue to this family, and when you left things fell apart… for the better, I think.

Nana, I’m twenty-one years old and I dress like you. I find myself wearing gym shoes that match my socks and your earrings. I’ll have on a baseball cap and shorts and a t-shirt that match the socks. We have a song down here for you, Nana—it’s called “Supermarket Flowers.” You liked Ed Sheeran. He’s singing about his grandma. This song hits home.

Nana, every time I listen to Bruno Mars I cry. You wanted to go see him in concert. You thought he was cute. You would giggle and blush a little when talking about him.

We took our first family trip without you, Nana. We went to the Outer Banks. You would’ve loved it. I wish you could’ve gotten to go. You loved the ocean. I sprinkled some of your ashes in the ocean before we left. It’s hard to do new things without you.

When cleaning out your house, everything smelled like you. You had presents ready for birthdays and Christmas. You were ready to go. Taking back the jewelry that I gave to you was hard. Taking back everything I gave you was hard. When you left, I would text you every day, telling you what happened and how I was feeling. I don’t know why I stopped. I think for a little bit I was distracted with my feelings.

I go back and re-read our conversations and the abbreviations you would use. FF = fat fingers—you would text this when you misspelled something. I wish you could answer me back. When you left, your phone was still activated. To help with coping, Mom and I texted people from your phone. We thought it was funny. They did not.

Looking at pictures is hard and comforting at the same time. You’re on my walls at college, Nana. My roommate sophomore year had a problem with the little section I gave you in my dorm. She called it a “shrine.” I don’t think it was. It had pictures of us, candles, letters for you, a feather, and hummingbirds. No one understands how hard this was for me.

You advocated for me. You made me feel seen and heard when I didn’t get along with Mom. You didn’t take it easy on me, and I was grateful for that. It made me strong, taught me how to work, and how to keep moving forward. When getting ready for college, Mom came across a notebook that you were going to give me. It was “College Survival 101.” You put gift cards in it and wrote advice in the book. You didn’t get to finish it, but the first rule you put in there was to have the buddy system.

When writing this letter, I couldn’t get through a paragraph without crying.

Nana, every day I hope I can make you proud. I will never forget you, Nana. I love you.

“You were an angel in the shape of my mom.”

Sincerely,
Your Favorite

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