It is only in these quiet, early morning hours that I allow myself to grieve.

Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to function.

I feel the tears welling up and my instinct is to squash them, squeeze my eyes tight so they don’t fall.

I know crying is healthy. I know crying can be cathartic. And yet.

My grandpa comes to mind often. Memories of him seem to swirl at the surface of my mind all the time.

I find myself looking at photos of him on my phone almost daily. One of the benefits of technology is that I can easily search for him and photos from the last couple of decades immediately pop up.

Living 400 miles away from family affords me the luxury of avoiding the reality of his absence.

A blessing and a curse.

In some ways I think I am living with a prolonged grief. I don’t have to confront the truth everyday.

At least until I allow myself the space to grieve.

I do it in spurts. Right now I’m thinking about his smell and his voice, his sense of humor.

I worry how much I’ll forget in the coming years.

The feel of his hand in mine, how I used to gently tug on the loose skin on his elbow when I was a kid.

I miss him, and always will.