I never went to her funeral. Just got handed down her stuff and went about the rest of my life.
If it were possible to go back in time, that would be the one thing I’d go and change. I’d have gone to her funeral.
She was my woman. My role-model. My middle name.
She was a part of me and somehow she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. She’s simply faint memories and handed-down tales in my brain. But we were intertwined.
My parents said my great-grandma was a writer. She was a creative. One of the few in my family. It can’t be an accident that we share a name.
She was kind but also passionate. She was my woman.
So why didn’t I go to her funeral? Maybe I had been to too many in that past year. Couldn’t stand another open-casket corpse staring me in the eyes.
Maybe I didn’t know how to explain my incessant sobs for a woman I had not spent more than twenty four hours with. Maybe I didn’t want to feel awkward in the pews. Maybe I just wanted to pretend the woman I idolized was still alive.
The guilt has been eating me alive. Just let me go back in time.