I can only assume that when you lose someone close to you, it’s pretty common to be blindsided by sadness on occasion.

I really miss my Aunt Cheryl.

There have been so many times that I have picked up my phone to call her only to realize she’s in a place without phone service.

I’m happy she’s there, I really am. But I miss her so much.

While I was in Utah I considered taking Vivi to her headstone but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. All that headstone marks is where her body is. The part I loved most, her spirit, is up in heaven and very much alive in my little baby who is named after her. Before she passed, I always stopped at a 24 hour Mexican place in downtown Salt Lake on my way to her house. I always ordered Cheryl a burrito with beans and rice, I always got the tacos. I would drive it up to her, smother her burrito in hot sauce, cut it into little pieces, she’d pop open a caffeine free diet Dr. Pepper, and we’d talk for hours about everything.

I stopped at our Mexican place one afternoon two weeks ago. It was my first time ordering just the tacos. It was also my first time turning left out of the drive-thru, not right.

Not right.

None of it felt right and the tacos tasted funny.

I know I’ll see her again, but sometimes I want to be selfish and have her back here with me so my tacos taste better and I don’t have to cry when I look at my phone.

Aunt Cheryl and me, about six years old.

Comments

  1. mommabird2345 says:

    I’m crying because I know what you mean. On May 2, it will be one year since my Grandma passed away. I know I will see her again someday, but I really miss seeing her now.

  2. I’m sorry your tacos didn’t taste good without her, but I totally get it. And yes, sometimes grief just blindsides you, no warning. Lots of hugs and love. xo

  3. The other day, I made a fancy dessert and my aunt commented “I think your grandmother would come back from the dead to eat that!” I thought to myself “oh….if that were true I would make this every single day” because sometimes, even 15 years after she left, I miss her so much it’s a physical ache. So yeah… I hear you.

  4. Oh honey. I’m sorry your phone makes you sad and your tacos are bad. =( I’ve never had a close relationship with a family member that I’ve lost before, so I don’t know the right words. But I do know that I would always eat a burrito with you anytime you needed tacos.

  5. I may have said this before, but to me, grief is like walking along the edge of the ocean. Most of the time, you walk along and the little waves hit your toes or occasionally go up to your ankles and you get used to it. Then, once in awhile, the waves come crashing into your legs and down you go.
    The journey of grief…they can write about it and talk about the commonalities, but it’s really a lonely trip.
    Hugs to you.
    Mary

  6. I know exactly what you mean when you say that the tacos don’t taste the same any more. Hugs.

  7. Amy in StL says:

    My dad’s only sister died when I was 12 (almost 30 years ago). I didn’t ever know any of my grandmothers and she didn’t have kids so it was like having a grandmother. I still remember walking down to her house one day that year only to realize she wasn’t there when I saw the flat tire on her car. It sucks, I hope it sucks less for you as the years go on.

  8. Oh, Casey, I wish I could do more than just say {{{HUG}}}. One of these days – when you and I finally get to meet up – I’ll buy you tacos and you can buy me a burrito, and we can talk about people on the Internet – because THAT much we have in common.

  9. I lost my grandma, Mim, four weeks ago today. I don’t think I’ll ever eat another Reuben sandwich. I’ve tried to call her three times this week–I don’t think my mind has fully figured it out yet.

    Thank you, Casey, for posting this today. I sure needed to hear from someone else who gets it. Praying for you and hoping my Mim and your Aunt Cheryl get a chance to hang out in Heaven.

  10. Just yesterday I was thinking of my Grandpa who picked me up from preschool. He always had one or two of those Kraft caramel squares for me. I miss him. I wish he could have met my children, especially the one named for him.

  11. Sometimes that pain totally blindsides you for now reason you can fathom. Other times you expect it. Either way it always hurts.
    The good news is that it wouldn’t be Heaven without really good Mexican food, so you’ll have another chance to get her a burrito.

  12. Okay, I cannot get over how much Addie looks like you in that picture of you and Aunt Cheryl (I think it’s the cheeks)! I know how you feel, though for me my grandma is still alive. Alzheimer’s has cruelly taken her from me. She thinks my grandpa is still alive, but has drifted away from her. I miss them both everyday.
    Hugs,
    Ang

    P.S. I’ve been around, just haven’t commented lately! xo

  13. sigh.

    hugs to you.

  14. *tears*…but they are happy because that’s how Cheryl would want them to be ;-)with butterflies and rainbows and kittens on top!

  15. Oh, I feel for you Casey. My maternal grandmother past away when I was 18. She was the sweetest and I was really close to her. Many times, I missed her. I’m always thinking how happy she would be if she has seen my kids.

  16. i’m so sorry for your loss.
    but i hope you are able to realize that it is wonderful that you feel that loss so profoundly. what a beautiful tribute to your dear aunt.

    i wish i had these feelings for my own parents, the latter of which i lost on my 32nd birthday.

    i still think of them fondly, occasionally, but more often than not it’s when someone mentions their parents or even grandparents that i feel a small sense of loss.

    i wish i could feel what you feel. you feel (everything) so well- and tell about it all with amazing candor & expression.

    kudos to you,
    and the people you love!

  17. I was talking to Stephanie about this last week. My Mama Jo (grandmother) died ten years ago last week. Sometimes it hits as hard as it did the very first days after she died. Like knock-you-in-the-stomach-and-steal-your-air hard. And that just sucks. There’s mushy stuff that sometimes makes me feel better, but occasionally I just want to be able to say “this sucks” and leave it at that for a little while.