My granny died six days ago.

I wanted to blog about her to keep her memory fresh. But I can't. I don't think my little heart is strong enough to take it quite so in-your-face yet.

I can't believe she's gone.

I can't believe she won't stand behind me in the kitchen "supervising" while I chop veggies, or while I stir sambal in the pot.

I can't believe she was just walking and talking and eating and smiling at me the morning on the day she died.

I just gave her money that morning, and while in the office, I was considering buying a car so I could drive her around, to all the doctor's appointments and to take her out more often.

The same afternoon, I wanted to borrow HH's breadmaker to tempt her tastebuds a bit more.

Apparently, she was in the waiting room of Mount Elizabeth Hospital, waiting for the doctor to see her, when she said she felt some pains. My aunt started to massage her. But suddenly her hand grabbed my aunt's, her head drooped forward, and she'd gone without a word.

This is my grandma, whom I've lived with all my life. I'm undoubtedly closer to her than I am with my own mother.

No one's going to come and open my bedroom door in the middle of the night to check if I'm home yet or if I've had soup yet anymore.

I miss you.

I'm a big girl now, Ah Ma.       R.I. P.