Today my plants glow with a different light.

This morning, I woke up too early, as usual, feeling the familiar heaviness of sleep that hadn’t quite caught up with me. The night had slipped away in a quiet exchange of texts, the kind that keeps you up without regret. The warmth of my blanket was tempting, but duty called. I dragged myself to work, the weight of routine settling in like a dull hum in the background. The ticking clock blurred with the sound of the espresso machine and the faint chatter of customers. My mind wandered, thoughts slipping between half-finished memories and the monotony of the day.

A sudden, sharp wail broke through the lull of routine. The fire alarm blared, shattering the bubble I’d unconsciously created around myself. At first, I didn’t even hear it — lost in my music, cocooned in my thoughts. But the buzz of movement, the chairs scraping and muffled urgency around me, broke through. Pulling off my headphones, the scene crystallized. People were filing out in calm disorder, voices layering over each other, but the sound felt far away. I was still trying to piece the moment together when my phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a message from my mom:

“Grandma passed away this morning. Everything was very peaceful. I love you so much.”

My chest tightened. How do I go on with the day after this? I stood frozen, trying to breathe, trying to process the words on the screen. I couldn’t think — all I could feel was a crushing weight pressing down on me.

For a few minutes, I didn’t know what to do. I can’t just leave without a word. But I couldn’t hold it together. I slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, and let myself cry. Just a little. Just enough to ease the knot in my throat.

When I stepped out, I went straight to my boss and told them what had happened. I needed to be alone, and for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty about putting myself first. In the past, I would have stayed, pretending nothing had happened, pushing through the pain as if it didn’t exist. That was the old me. But not today. Today, I let myself feel, and I’m proud of that.

The walk home felt surreal. My legs moved automatically, but my mind was somewhere else. I didn’t pay attention to the world around me, the noise, the people, the rhythm of the city. Everything felt muted and far away, like I was walking through a fog that didn’t quite belong to this reality.

I got home and I dropped my things by the door and collapsed onto the bed. I stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. My gaze shifted, and I saw my plants from a different angle. They were big, vibrant, and full of life. It hit me then: life doesn’t end just because a body is no longer here. Life continues — in other places, in other forms, in the smallest details. Maybe she’s in the sunlight that hits the leaves I though, in the breeze that sways them. The thought brought a strange kind of peace.

She would’ve loved these plants, I thought. Grandma always had a way with living things, whether it was her garden or the pets in her life. A memory surfaced — her laugh, loud and full of mischief, like she was in on some joke no one else quite understood

But the regrets weigh heavily on me. The last time I was home, my grandmother barely had the strength to go for a walk. She didn’t want to, but she did it for me. That memory feels bittersweet now. I keep wondering if my presence could have made her final days easier, less lonely. I’ll never know. All I can do is carry this deep sorrow and hope she knew how much I loved her, even if I didn’t say it enough.

I keep staring at the ceiling, the sunlight streaming through the window caught my attention. It reflected softly on my bedside table, reminding me of something important. The ring. I sat up and reached for the small box where I keep it safe. I opened it carefully, and there it was — the ring she gave me the last time we were together.

I remember how much she wanted me to have it, how she insisted I take it with me. She was so worried, as if she knew it would be the last time. I’ve never cared much for material things, but this ring… Its weight grounds me in the present. When I wear it now, it reminds me how fleeting life is and how the mundane problems we stress over don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. It reminds me to love as fully as I can those who are close to me today, and to be kind, because that’s what’s going to stay.

I don’t have all the answers. My heart is full of regrets and unanswered questions. I’m so sorry for the things I didn’t do, the words I didn’t say. But I do know this: love transcends time and space. It doesn’t matter that I’m far away from my family right now. My mom knows I’m with her, even from a distance. And my grandmother’s love… that will stay with me forever, in every leaf, every ray of light, and every breath of wind.

The world outside looks normal today. Planes pass overhead, the sun sparkles off the lake. The light streams through my window, scattering across the room. But for me, this day isn’t normal. It never will be again. Today, I paused. I let the world stop for a moment. And maybe… maybe this is the reality check I needed.

Life is fragile. It’s easy to get caught up in the small dramas and the endless to-do list. But when you’re faced with loss, none of that matters. You realize how precious every moment is. Sitting there, holding her ring, I realized something: love doesn’t go away. It lingers, shaping the air around us, weaving itself into the smallest moments.

As I watered the plants later, their leaves still glistening in the fading light, I felt a quiet kind of peace. Not the kind that erases the pain, but the kind that lets you carry it without being crushed. She was still here. In the plants, in the sunlight, in me. Not in the way I’d like, but in a way that’s just as real. And though my chest feels heavy and my heart aches, I’ll carry her with me. Always.