Epilogue

Today is my grandmother’s birthday.

Almost 69.

A very young age, a full life ahead of her still really. We all assumed she’d naturally decay like my great-grandmother. She was so stubborn about wanting to be mobile but eventually your body gets to tired to keep fighting.

Rest is good, especially for the good.

My grandmother was a great person and I think after 28 crucially painful days of heartbreak, I understand how to keep going. I am definitely still heartbroken.

The grandson in me tells me to call her, catch up, wish her a happy birthday, and say you’ll visit soon.

This is the first year I won’t get the priveledge to do that.

You never really think of life as a priveledge until its gone.

The funny thing is, my grandmother never really knew her birthday. Being one of the eldest children born poor in a third world country starting to evolve into a functional state, she was born at home. Her mother didn’t register her until a few days later, so on multiple documents, her birthday date always ranged fromm the 29th to the 2nd. But we usually icked the 30th or the 31st to celebrate.

I want to make something out of myself. After I got home from the funeral I quickly went to work, and some might say that it isn’t the healthiest choice to do. But perhaps its what she’d want me to do. Or what i defintiely need to do to cope.

I was supposed to return to her as a journalist wonderkind, and unfortunately we didn’t have the time to.

So in the meantime, i’m hustling, keeping busy. I need to make it because if I don’t her sacrifices and death mean absolutely nothing. I need the awards, the pulitzer, the staff jobs, the accolades, and the book I want to publish.

To keep hustling is to remind myself of what my first memory of her, when she was late 30s early 40s working two jobs in the US, so that one day I could give back two fold.

I don’t know how now, but I still will

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