My grandmother, her name meant flowers, and -
She was a flower. Not just any flower, but a strong-stemmed rose; whose colours might fade away but its essence will always be felt.
Up until the summer of 2022, I was spared the agony of your absence, and I guess I got too comfortable, too complacent. You used to knit sweaters, gloves, socks, which over the years wouldn't fit me but I would wish with all my heart to fit into them. And I would give you a hug, while getting the warmest, tightest one in return.
However all these years, I would feel a numbing ache, the hurt of realising that your arms, muscular enough to shelter me like a newborn but those fingers, they wouldn't squeeze me in like before and I would always feel the fear of you losing your grip eventually, always and forever. So, I would try harder and hug us tight enough for two.
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Now, you may not be physically present with me here to give me a hug, but with all the flowers that I see around me, I will know that you are right here.
Still present with them, with me, with us.
Your scent lingers on.
Until we meet again, forever in my heart.