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I've always had a unique way of dealing with loss. When I was eight, I pretended that our old tabby, Holly, was out prowling the neighborhood and would be home as soon as she'd finished terrorizing all the other felines. When Grandpa died, instead of accepting it, I told myself he'd gone on a long vacation overseas and would be home soon. The problem with this delusional way of thinking was that eventually reality sets in, and when it does, the consequences crush you. There are times I've been merrily skipping along through life and then it would hit me: Holly was dead, and more importantly, I'd never see Grandpa again. Ever.
These moments would catch me off guard, mostly at inopportune times like the middle of one of my college classes or out with friends. I've struggled, trying to hide the tears, claiming something was in my eye -- whatever I could think of. Thankfully, the reality checks come less often now. Grandpa's been gone a year, but once in a while, I miss him so much it hurts.
And maybe that's why I didn't get close to people anymore. I had my family and Anita, my best friend. I didn't need or want anyone else because eventually you have to say goodbye, and when it came to goodbye, I wasn't very good at it.
But then something happens and it changes everything you know.
Clarity. It washes over when you least expect it, a feeling of warmth and certainty even in the most uncertain of times, an unmistakable feeling like a fuzzy blanket on a bitterly cold day.
And that thing turned out to be him.
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