“BRAYNK! BRAYNK!  BRAYNK!  BRAYNK!”

My alarm clock beeps incessantly from my windowsill, alerting me of a new year and waking me up to another age.  I quickly swing my legs out of bed and reach to silence the obnoxious ringing. Half asleep, I tuck my legs into Indian-style and sit on the edge of my bed while I begin to wake my body up.

I firstly scoot some wayward bangs from off my forehead and start to twist the bottom of my hair.  My hair, which I cut impulsively short last year, now stretches down my shoulder.  It snakes down and to the left in a long slender twisty braid and with its end twirled around my pointer finger, I think on the ups and downs it has been through this past year.  I think about the sun and the snow it has come up against and the different hats it has been under.  And though occurring at an eye-crossingly dull speed, I know that it has been and still is growing.

I then reach my fingers up toward the ceiling, stretching out my torso, and then drop my hands heavily into my lap.  My hands, which have been busy busy busy with work, now rest comfortably on my legs.  They are permanently red and embarrassingly rough from the hundreds of lattes I have steamed.  They’re not the most delicate pair in the world.  Still, they are skilled and useful and through, by, and because of the countless number of times they’ve been burned, they have learned to become resilient.

I then wiggle my toes underneath the blanket, and my feet begin to feel lively and awake.  My feet, which have had to re-learn everything from frappes to fendus to fuetes, now don their own set of all-natural dance shoes from being beaten into the ground all year.  The tips of my fingers brush up against the calloused things, and my first thought is, “How ugly!”  Nevertheless, it is this pair of feet I am often tempted to deride that have been the very things that have helped me to fly once again.  Thereby, in consideration of the exuberant joy of dancing barefooted, I have to say that all the pain it took to get them like such has been worth it.  With that, how can I call them anything but beautiful?

So it is with baby seeds and enduring endeavors of growth, resilience, and beauty that I usher in this new set of 365 days—not at all where I want to be but, most certainly, not where I was.  Thus with every minute passing, I say, “Thank you.”  With every hour of revelation, I continue to learn.  So that, with every year, I might become one notch closer to the woman I was made to be.

“Come on home, Malia.”

With that, my 100 mph NYC-life came to a screeching halt.

Less than 24 hours later, I now stare at her hands, those hands which took a gas mask to school every day during WWII; those hands which interlocked with Grandpa’s over the Charles’ River Bridge; those hands which cradled two sons and two daughters; those hands which cooked countless pots of look fun for her four grandkids and took them to karate practice every Saturday and had to break up fights on an embarrassingly regular schedule.  I continue to stare at her hands whilst I look inside myself for anything to feel and something to write about.  And I find nothing.  I feel nothing.  Not yet, at least.

Thus as my words fall short and inadequate and force themselves out with as much energy as her ailing 75 lb body under those many blankets made with love, my thoughts revisit the memories of past hospital rooms and memorial services, and I see a light.  Not that kind of light.  It’s not my time yet.  Anyway, I see this light vanquishing the pain and redeeming the sorrow; for in this reality, all is set right and hope is able to rise.  It is in this singular and infallible truth that I find comfort and letting go of my selfish inclinations, I declare– the best is yet to come.

The best is still yet to come, Grandma.

With that, take your time and enjoy eating as much custard pie as you want for breakfast.  I am not at all trying to rush you along.

Still while you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, do not be afraid, for He is with you.  In fact, take heart!  Be excited!  And see that you are going to dwell in the house of the Lord, with the Lord forever!  Thereupon when you hear your name called from that celestial roster, put the pie down and go on ahead.  He is so much better than all of this.

Go on Home, Grandma.

We’ll be okay over here.  We’ll be fine.  We’ll take care of Mom and won’t eat too much meat or drink too much soda.  We’ll continue to get together for Thanksgiving and go to Aunty Nora’s Christmas party, and I’ll keep my eyes open for a nice Chinese boy (though I can’t guarantee anything).

Jokes aside.  Sorrow aside.  And HOPE, here and in full force–

I love you, Grandma.  I will miss you a lot but will see you soon.  After all, this is not goodbye.