“I don’t understand, but sure.”

“I don’t understand, but sure.” — these were some of the last words someone, who died recently, said to me about two and a half years ago.

They said those words after I told them I had decided to step away from their community.

Unless I’m speaking with family and close friends, I don’t do a great job describing my thoughts. And even these folks might say I suck at it.

I’m barely on social media these days. Even if I were, the character count would always be a limiting factor, and I’ll never truly be able to articulate myself.

But here, this letter, this is my outlet of choice and design. And so, I think it’s just about a safe space to get descriptive: death stings. It always stings. And it stings right now.

About a week ago, the person who said those words (in the first line of this letter) passed away. That same day, my grandmother also died.

Before their deaths, I hadn’t seen either of them in a long time for various reasons, and frankly, I wasn’t sure I ever would. But with their passing, I know for sure that I won’t be seeing them—on this side of heaven, at least. And that is simply difficult to understand.

At this point in my life, death and the idea of dying are somewhat familiar. I’ve lost way too many people. Yet, each death always feels like a fresh wound or as though a scab is being picked over and over again.

The more you pick a scab, the longer it takes to heal.

And sometimes, it doesn’t matter how well you know the deceased, the length of your relationship with them, or how and when they died; when death happens, it just stings.

The resulting scab never really goes away. Instead, it just gets picked over and over again. All you can do is try to slow the bleeding down.

And all I can say to that is “I don’t understand but sure,” ‘cause it’ll never make sense to me, but I don’t have much of a choice but to accept it.

So, if you’re reading this, say a prayer for a father and his two daughters who just lost a piece of themselves.

This letter was originally shared as a newsletter. You can sign up to receive letters like this one on a biweekly basis here.