It's not the big things I miss. Of course I'm sad she'll never see me get married, or that she wasn't there for my 20th birthday and will never be at any other "important" occasion in my life. It's the daily calls I miss. The honest "How are you?"s and the fact that she wanted to hear all about my life, every single day, from how I got up to what book I was reading. It's that she was always the one to go to the movies with me, and that I can't find anyone else to take the time to go with me. It's that I can't tell her how utterly wrecked I am about the fact that I will not be able to finish school yet again, because after being sick for so long, no one wants to take me because I'm "too old". It's that no one tells me how beautiful my cat is. It's not hearing the same story thirty times in an hour, because she always has to tell everything again, or that no one asks my opinion about some stupid pants for a million times. No sudden visits for tea anymore, at completely unconvenient times while I'm still in my pyjamas, and no one that is able to understand what it's like to be sick, even if we had two completely different things. I have to live with mine the rest of my life, and I'll have to work to make it bearable. She had hers for the rest of her life because she knew that was what was going to end it. She fought cancer for 18 years, nearly my whole life, and she finally died in October last year, shortly after my 20th birthday. It was the very first birthday she ever missed because of her sickness. Since I was in a clinic, too, I never even celebrated it. I was so freaking upset about that. I don't even care anymore. I just want her to call me and ramble on about her granddaughter, and ask me about my dog and cat and books and all the things only she cared about. I miss her more than I'd ever thought I would. I guess you always only know what you had when it's gone.