Then Grandpa Dies

I don’t know what that means. I see him lying in a box with shiny, soft fabric inside. He looks very still. Years later, my cousin tells me it’s the only time she ever saw Grandma cry.

I notice Grandpa is gone. I don’t see him come into the shack anymore to cut a piece of Velveeta from the fridge. The shack feels different now. It doesn’t smell like fresh tobacco the way it used to.

Grandma still has our Bible studies in her room. I love her. I can tell this matters to her, and that makes it matter to me too.

We have our own things in common as well. She shows me how to embroider, and later how to crochet. When I make a mistake, she patiently pulls the stitches back and helps me start again. We sit together quietly while she does this. Being with her feels comforting. I feel safe here, even when other things don’t make sense.

Looking back, I can see that what mattered most here was not belief, but something quieter and constant.

At a time when so much in my world feels unstable, Grandma’s consistency offers my nervous system something it can organize around. Even when the structure around her comes with pressure and limitation, the experience of being with someone who is present, predictable, and emotionally available creates moments of safety. These moments do not erase what is difficult, but they matter. They become threads my body remembers.

In my upcoming book, A Memoir of Loss, Love, and the Body's Way Back to Itself, I share the story of Ellie McGuire as she navigates how early imprints shape the way loss is carried forward. Stay tuned for updates on its release.