About once a month for the past 6 years, when my father comes home from a long day at work, he and I get into the car together and drive. The road spans before us, each mile ticking across the odometer, a quiet silence settling between us. Slowly, the urban highways of Spartanburg County transition into a more peaceful setting; the buildings diminish in size and number, trees appear by twos, then by fours, and then by twenties. It isn’t long before my dad exits the highway, the sound of his turn signal piercing through the screams of silence. His old Chevrolet van jets across the holey road towards our destination. As I see the black, rusted gates approach through the windshield, I feel my body tense and the emotion pulse through my rib cage; each time I reach behind me, grabbing the new set of flowers to set down, and say a silent plea that we’ll pull up to her grave and she’ll be standing there, smiling at us, saying, “Just kidding! I’m coming home now.” It never happens like that, but I can hope.

I let my father go first, allowing him time alone with his mother. He always returns with eyes a bit more red than they were before, a bit more wet. I take my silent steps towards my grandmother’s grave, my heart always pounding harder than Travis Barker on the drums. Looking down to see your best friend, your rock and shield, your comfort turned into a plot of land marked with a tombstone- that’s the hardest part of each trip for me. My legs tremble as I squat down, run my shaking fingers across the embellished name, and I immediately begin my ritualistic apology. I apologize for getting my tears on her grave stone, but I mostly apologize for what happened that night in May.

In May of 2009, the nights were long and the air was sticky; the smell of the honeysuckle plants drifted from the woods beside the baseball fields, wafting up into the spectators’ noses. I trudged down the red-clay field and sighed about the loss my team had just taken. My dad and I lugged ourselves into the crisp air-conditioning of the car and whisked away to the nearest fast food restaurant for dinner. Giving up his efforts to cheer me up, my dad switched tactics and quickly dialed the number of the one person he knew I could not resist; it was a daily occurrence, really, me stealing my dad’s phone from him for hours on end so I could speak to my grandmother. Tonight, however, I wasn’t in the mood to talk. My blood was boiling with anger at myself and my team, frustration coursing through my veins. After a few moments of her voice crackling through the static speaker, I snapped a short excuse and hung up, without even saying “good bye” or “I love you”.

The rest of the night went as any other night would, a house of frenzied homework and deadlines and mom’s lesson plans scattering across the dining room table. The next day, a Friday, was going by as planned until I was called out of class. The office assistant wouldn’t tell me why I was leaving or why I had been called to the office to leave when nobody was there to pick me up. When my mother came in, eyes red and swollen, I figured something was wrong; but, it wasn’t until she held me in her arms outside the school and told me she was gone that I only started to understand. I had never cried on school grounds before that Friday, but that day I fell to my knees and poured each emotion out on the pavement. My eyes blurred, my knees scraped against the pavement as my throat contracted first from the back, then upwards, swallowing my tongue. I was angry that she died without letting me say goodbye. I was numb to my surroundings, my brain captivated by thoughts of our last phone call, our last contact at all. And I vowed to myself that I would never leave a conversation or meeting with someone without expressing to them how much I love them and how important to me they are.

Later, when the wound was finally somewhat healed, I opened up to my grandpa about my final words with my grandmother. A frown creased his perfectly-aged face and I watched the epiphany form in his eyes. “You were the last person she spoke to,” he said thoughtfully. “After your phone call, she went straight to her bed and slept.” He didn’t hold me in contempt or blame me for her death, but I always have felt the heavy conviction of her death on my shoulders. Each time I visit her, I apologize for what happened that night. Her death taught me many things, but most of all, it taught me that we don’t express love enough. If you’re reading this, hearing it, watching it, just know that I love you as one human being to another, and you’re important to me.