writer, podcaster, artist, child of God

It’s Women’s Week, and I can only think of you…

Last week, after I was done work, I tried calling my parents, but none of them picked up the phone.

Then I thought of calling any of my friends, but I knew they wouldn’t pick up as well: blame it on the busy life.

But then again, they might not necessarily be busy. They might not be my friends after all.

And when those people don’t pick up, I usually call you because I know you will. You always have time for any of your loved ones.

But as I was starting to dial your number, I realized you won’t pick up the phone.

Because you’re not here to pick it up anymore.

So I sat in the lobby, waiting for my ride to pick me up. Just like a kid waiting for Mommy or Daddy after school, crying after being bullied.

But I couldn’t cry. I had to pull myself together to not let those tears of mine fall down.

I was at work after all.



Yesterday was your birthday. I’m mad because I wish I was in Montreal, precisely at your house, because in all honesty, I don’t miss this city. I do miss the memories created there, the memories of you with me, and some cute buildings and neighborhoods.

Maybe it’s not the city that brings me anxiety, but the people in it, now that I think about it.

Anyway, I just wish I could have been with the whole family, celebrating your birthday, even if you’re not there. Forgive me for not paying homage to you. I don’t know how to do it.

And your death is not something I accept, or comprehend.

I was annoyed that some other people I know almost share your birthday. Maybe it’s because they annoy me. Maybe it’s because I feel like only you and my other grandma can have the month of March to yourselves.

Isn’t special to have two grandmas born in the same month?

But they’re both gone now.

You’re gone now.


I don’t think I have mourned yet, and I don’t think I will any time soon. I don’t want to.

Yes, it might not be healthy, but I don’t want to forget you.

It irritates me to know that you might not be proud of me because of the mistakes I’ve done.

But I hold on to the memory of when I was a child and you’d tell me you loved me more than my other cousins because I was the oldest.

You knew how to make me happy and proud.

But I failed you. Like I always do anyway.

But then again, I asked my father of confession if you would stop loving me from up there, now that you see me fighting my demons, and he said, “No, she’s now your guardian angel. Talk to her, she’s praying for you.”

So I still have hope. Like I always have anyway.


You know, when I came back from France, I burst into tears when thinking about the fact that I couldn’t come home to you and tell you all about my trip. Then I realized that you had been with me during my whole trip and that you knew more than I could have ever put it into words if you were still alive.


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I’m pulling myself together as I’m writing this.

I just remembered I have a black and white picture of when you were young and I think you were about to get married, or were already married. Forgive me for not knowing.

But damn, you had that 60s Egyptian beauty that raised me, that beauty that don’t exist anymore.

You had this short wavy black hair, and I see myself in you since I have a similar haircut.

Recently, I’ve been wanting my long hair back, but I think I’ll keep my hair the way it is.

Because, since I’ll never be even a ¼ of who you are, then I’ll at least be a little closer to you.

Anything not to forget you.

Greet our Lord Jesus for me. Ask Him to protect my eyes from what they see and my ears from what they hear, as this world drives me crazy, and I fear losing my sight to see Him, and my hearing to hear Him.

I love you.

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