And The Skies Cried Too

A letter without a recipient.

The day you were gone, the skies cried too. We were mirror images—nature and I—coexisting in a grand letting go. I thought about death often when I was young, even found a certain comfort in the company of headstones. Wars have been fought over the knowledge the bones under my feet understand about the afterlife. Death was never something of permanence to me because everyone who passes lives through the people around them. Memories are stored, stories are told, recipes are handed down, the crook in her nose looks identical on her granddaughter. It never bothered me too much even when I couldn’t fully wrap my mind around it. Instead, it fascinated me in the least morbid way possible.

My whole life, you encouraged my imagination—told me I should be a writer. You’d see the notebooks upon notebooks I’d store my little, fanciful creations and you looked at each one with care in your eyes. I saw it then, where I get my creativity. I’d always wave you off and say, “Oh these? No, no. I’m no writer at all.” But then you’d remind me of our surname and that writing was attached to me by name and blood, but I had to choose it back. I’d tell you my ideas and outlandish stories, only to once again, wave them off as unworthy. But you didn’t. You told me, and you told me, and you told me.

And then you died.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, there was no longer breath in your lungs to tell me I should always chase my dreams. But I remember. And I cried. And the skies cried too. The storm that day raged on, rattling my windows and whipping through the trees. The water carried my tears and the wind carried my anger. Death didn’t bother me until I realized you’d never see me do this.

But in the time since you left, I stopped being angry and I started following your advice. Do you know what I found? Of course, you already know—you always did. I found joy and inspiration and a life led by curiosity and wonder through every word I write. I find myself saying, “Nan would love this,” every time I write something new. I think of the questions you would’ve asked or what expression would cross your face first. But most of all, I think about how you still live in my heart and soul even if I can no longer speak to you the way I wish.

So now, on days like today, when it rains and I write, I remember that death is not a punishment but merely inevitable. It is what we make it. When it happens, it reminds everyone of what they love and what truly matters in the moments we have. It’s kind and cruel in the same breath. I wish it didn’t take me until you passed but I’m sure, somewhere and in some way, you’re reading this too.