I know not how to begin this story. For I have written it countless time in my overthinking head, in my tumultuous heart, in that letter to God nine years ago. It is a story I recount to myself time and again to train my tear ducts from overflowing when someone speaks of ‘parents’, ‘mother’ and ‘father’. Now, I can reiterate the standard summary of what happened when I was 18 with a grin and assure the other party, “Don’t be!” when they exclaimed, “I am so sorry”. Of course, birthdays and Christmas can still be overwhelming with flashbacks that can present itself like a falling feather or a torrential rain. Nine years. And as I was about to bask in the fact that my wounded, resilient heart is coping well with loss, grandmother finished her earthly race and bade farewell.
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