Normally, I don’t answer calls at five in the morning, because believe it or not, I actually do sleep. But I knew something was wrong when my grandma called me back-to-back.

She’s dead.

Merely looking at the words floods my eyes with tears. Maybe it’s the harsh black and white reality that makes it feel unmistakably real. Perhaps that’s why I’m writing it out; cleansing myself of the undeniable grief that I can’t seem to deal with.

It’s not supposed to be this way.

So, you’re wondering who, who died? Writing her name will bring more pain than relief, but I will tell you what she meant to me.

Hope.

Hope that tomorrow would be a better day. Hope that I would never go hungry. Hope that I would never feel alone.

Though she was my cousin, I called her Mama. I remember leaving my bed and braving the dark when I was no more than 6 years old to find her. No sense of direction (I still suffer from that as an adult) and lost, I searched those apartments all night until I found her. Well, actually, she found me.

She always found me.

It hurts so much I’ve gone numb. I choose instead to feel nothing than to confront this pain. To lay here in this bed and think of all the things I should have said.

So much more to say.

I can’t bring myself to say them.

I can’t. I just can’t.