Dear Grandad,

I saw you in a butterfly today. 

It was a monarch. 

I don't know if you liked butterflies. 

But it looked free, and it reminded me of you. 

I miss you. 

I can't call you. 

So I see you in butterflies. 

Because they're beautiful and calm. 

And I'd like to believe you're at peace. 

Because I'm not. 

As time passes I expect to feel better

and smile more.

I still smile and laugh

I promise.

Just not as often.

and I know you’d want me to be happy 

But I can’t call you,

and I see you in butterflies.

—

A few days ago, I instinctively had the urge to call my grandad. I've been in Bermuda for a few weeks now, and whenever I get here, I usually call to check in and tell him how I’m settling in with my summer job and being with the other half of my family. It’s usually just a ten minute call to say hi, but not being able to do that feels weird.

I’m not used to my grandad not being around. This feels different from previous family losses. It’s more real. Maybe it’s because I’m more present now, or maybe because the older I get, the longer grief lingers. I’m not sure.

So although I’m continuing on with life, there’s something tugging me back. I feel slower.

Am I holding onto grief too tightly? 

Is it hindering my growth?

How can I let go if holding on keeps his memory alive?

Am I using grief as a shield?