Visiting my grandmother's grave with my cousin last week stirred up a flood of emotions I thought I had under control. It’s been ten months since she passed, yet the pain still feels raw, like an old wound that hasn’t fully healed. Every Monday, my cousin and I make the trip, but this visit hit differently. Maybe it was the dream I’d had the night before we visited her. She was there, vibrant and joyful, and her happiness filled the dream with a warmth I hadn’t felt since she left us. I woke up with tears on my face, the longing sharper than ever. In that dream, it felt so real, as if I could reach out and hold her hand, hear her laugh, and tell her all the things I wish I’d said more often. Waking up was hard, like losing her all over again, and that heaviness stayed with me during our visit. At the gravesite, the finality of her absence hit me anew. There’s an unspoken emptiness in knowing I’ll never see her sitting in her favorite chair, hear her stories, or feel the reassurance of her presence. Despite the sadness, visiting her grave brings a strange comfort; it’s a quiet way to keep our connection alive. I miss her deeply and carry her memory close to my heart, cherishing all the moments we shared. The ache doesn’t lessen with time, but somehow, that ache is a testament to how much I love her and always will.