Dear Grandma

Grandma, I know you loved me, but would you love me now?

By the time I was thirteen, you were gone. I cried for you—do you cry for me, now? What do you see when you see me? Are you happy? Are you disappointed? Do you hate me? Do you wish you could change me? Do you even see me at all? Do you see anything? Are you in the heaven you so strongly believed in? I don’t believe in that heaven anymore, Grandma. I wanted to. I tried for so long to believe, but I couldn’t keep pretending to feel something I didn’t, to believe so much I didn’t think was true. My last reason for holding onto heaven, onto God, was you. And no matter how hard I tried to talk to you through him, no matter how hard I cried and begged, you never answered back.

When I loved you and you loved me, what did you know of me? Did you know my greed? Did you know I used to slip pencils up the sleeves of my jacket when you took me to the dollar store down your block? They were always hard and cold against the warm skin of my bare arm from where I sat behind you in the backseat of your car. Did you know I lied to you? Did you know how often? I would tell you school was great when it couldn’t have been worse. I would tell you I kept you in my nighttime prayers every day when I rarely ever prayed—until I had to, for you. I would tell you I was writing good things, great things, all the time, even at times when my mind was devoid of thought, when the notebooks you bought me were blank and empty and hidden under my clothes in my drawers like criminal evidence, in shame.

Some things are still the same, Grandma. My favorite color is still yellow. My favorite story in the Bible is still Jonah and the Whale. I’m still a writer. I’m still young. I’m still who I was; a part of me always will be. I still love you.

Would you love me today, Grandma? Please tell me you would love me. I need to know you would love me. I need to know that you know me; I need to know that you see me. I know you loved me, but can you love me now? Can you love me knowing I kissed a girl in the ninth grade? Can you love me knowing I would never willingly step into a church again? Can you love me now that my opinions are my own? Can you love me now that I know what I say? Can you love me now that I speak my mind? Could you love me truly and deeply, without conditions? Can you love me knowing how many days I lie and take and snap and laze about? Can you love me even when I don’t think about you for days, weeks, months, years? Can you see who I am now? Can you accept it? Can you accept me? Who am I, Grandma? Can’t you see me for who I am? Can’t you love me for who I wasn’t?