Today marks the 13th year since I lost my grandad to cancer. I can still remember the exact moment my mum told me the news. I can picture it almost perfectly in my head and every time I do, it still has the ability to bring tears to my eyes.
I’m well aware that the pain of losing a loved one is meant to ease over the years, and it certainly has, but I don’t think you ever lose that ache in your heart for the gap that they’ve left.
I thought writing this post might be cathartic but while I’m writing this I’m on my daily commute home with tears pouring down my cheeks – and I’m not usually one to let my emotions show.
My grandad was my absolute hero. I completely idolised him, I still do. He taught me how to play cards for money, how to build cars and castles out of sand and would sit patiently through every dance routine my brother, cousins and I would perform.
He was the best grandad in the world.
When he died, my mum always told me if I looked up to the sky at night, he’d be watching me, the brightest star in the sky.
I still love to stare at the stars at night.