A Heavy Heart To Carry

I suppose ‘a heavy heart’ is just a figure of speech and not a condition one suffers from when life gets tough and you are feeling down. Either way, my heart has been feeling a little heavy lately especially since my grandpa passed away. I hate writing that. I hate having to say that. It makes it all too real. The night my grandpa left us I had to tell my sister. I was sobbing and I started crying even harder once I said it. I had never really experienced loss before, people around me have died but no one that was really apart of my life. I miss him everyday. There are pictures all around the house of him and it hurts. It makes my heart heavy.¬† The worst part of all of this is watching everyone else deal with their grief and not being able to do anything about it. There’s a sadness in their eyes, tears clouding their vision, and pain being translated into words. It is just hard.

You know in movies and television shows or books it takes someone’s death to make you realize that life is short? I don’t know about that. Life is difficult. For something that can be so beautiful and amazing why must some days feel like the biggest struggle…Life ain’t easy is right. Life is also unfair. Tell me something I don’t know. Death is difficult and unfair even for those who had long, fulfilling lives. Its unfair and difficult for those you live in the wake, those who have a hole in their heart where you use to be. Death is dark and depressing. Death forces¬† you take a step back and realize. Death makes you take a deep breath. I don’t know. I feel as though I should apologize to those reading this, I’m sorry this isn’t more uplifting, I’m sorry if this confuses you or burdens you. Adds to worries or troubles. I’m sorry that my writing is an outlet for my feelings. Hopefully as the days go by, my heart and yours gets lighter. Its been three weeks already.

Here’s your uplifting tidbit…For YEARS and up until a year or so ago, I swear someone told me my Grandpa lived in a car trunk during the Great Depression and survived on bread and milk. Of course. After bragging telling people this and facing some skepticism I asked my Gramma if this was true. It wasn’t. I don’t know where I got the idea but for some reason it stuck with me. It still makes me chuckle. My Grandpa was pretty damn awesome so it wasn’t that much of a jump. This reminds me. He kept a framed picture of FDR by his chair and later in the room at his nursing home. Doesn’t that tell you that my Grandpa has the best taste? Maybe my love for FDR is genetic.


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