Reading Taught Me How To Heal From Grief
Even in my darkest moments, I’m never alone as long as I have books by my side
When Mom calls at 6 o’clock in the morning, I know she’s about to deliver bad news. My heart races, bracing for whatever’s about to happen.
“Grandad is in Heaven,” Mom says, her voice filled with grief. “He passed away in the early hours of the morning.”
My mind is racing with questions, but all I can do is try to comprehend the enormity of what I’ve just heard. Tears blur my vision as I stare blankly ahead, the room spinning.
I pause for a minute. Shutting my eyes, I can still picture us in the English countryside all those years ago. The sun dips low on the horizon, casting golden hues across rolling hills. I remember telling Grandad I wish we could stay there forever, just the two of us. But now, years later, that moment is nothing more than a fading memory.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks, her question jolting me back to the present moment. “You haven’t spoken for a while.”
I sniffle, reach for a tissue, and mention I’d do anything to have one more conversation with Grandad like the good old days.
“What would you say?” Mom asks.
