Carving into my skin, every memory I have of you; each line representing something new to be heartbroken about losing. I can handle the pain, I can handle the sting of the tattoo, it's the new found sense of responsibility I have because of it. It's almost as if I have made a deal with you. I will no longer allow myself to fall as low as I did that year, if you are willing to help me. The weight of that promise is firmly resting on my shoulders and although I have every intention of keeping it, I can't help but feel the self doubt creep into my mind.

You were always so strong. Even on your death bed you made sure to hang on with us until Dermot came to take care of things. You fought so hard for so long, I am that much more proud to call you my Granda. I wish I could tell you these things; I wish I could thank you for helping me find my way in the world and for never judging me when I fucked up.

It's been almost a year and yet still, it feels as though my chest is tearing in two when I think of you. I miss you more and more - simple things. I miss pretending knowing what you were saying because you kept mumbling, or I miss the tv blasting loudly. I miss knowing that I always had somewhere I was welcome to be when I had nowhere else to go. I just miss you, and this, although you might think it is stupid and a waste of money, is my way of reminding myself that so long as I remember who I am, who you were, I will always find my way out of the shit life throws at me.

I will try my hardest to hold up my end of the deal, I just need you to do the same. I'm not sure I can do this alone.