You died barely a month ago. And my dad's never been the same since. Neither have I. I saw you last summer. Regardless of the fact that you used a walking stick and barely remembered me, you seemed fine. But you weren't, ever since that surgery a few years ago. My dad came to visit you because of that. And it pisses me off, because while he was on that flight, you fell. You were taken to the hospital, had blood drawn from you. And died. And he didn't know until he got there. Instead of seeing his dad in his house, he saw his dad at his funeral. And so did I. When I saw your body on video call in the middle of the night, I didn't know how to feel. Scared? Angry? Sad? Tired? Instead I felt nothing at all. I felt like my soul was detached from my body as I saw the grandfather that I'd seen just a summer ago. You looked so peaceful, like you were sleeping. And I almost cried. Almost. I somehow managed to not shed a single tear, which seems strange to me now, considering the situation. Regardless, I still miss you Tata. A lot.
