remember who you love

“I forgot” does not mean “I didn’t care enough to remember”

anonymous asked:

Oh my Witch, sweetheart, I'm so sorry.... i was studying psychology an that stuff at Bat, if you want to talk bout... it, just hit it. But please PLEASE don't blame yourself for these horrible things an remember, there are people who will love you no matter what, including your brother... - Lil Dinosaur

Psychology? You- you’re a psychologist..?
I don’t need it but- but if you wanna message me on the down-low..
I think I got some questions..

P out

i still remember her, you know?

my grandmother, that is. a woman who loved to play shop with me, to feed me her twist on new york style cheesecake, who loved to gift me with dolls from poland and the odd teddy bear or two. i remember her warmth, the slightly shrill voice, the woolen clothes and those brown loafers that she loved so much.

but i also remember how i’d catch a version of her that i wasn’t used to - a woman who looked much older, with ghost-white knuckles, and a hardened face that was far too solemn for someone who gave and gave and gave - for someone who deserved so much more than what she was given. i remember how that version of grandma would speak, too. in a hushed voice, speaking in the mousiest of whispers, as if she were a teenager again, trying not to make a peep as she hid with her whole family under the floorboards of a family friend’s home.

i also remember the tears. how they’d just… appear, from nowhere. sometimes they’d just start falling from her face mid-sentence, other times it was when she was looking forlornly out of the large window in the living room that i’d drawn on as a toddler. they were not the same tears she shed as a teenager, after watching her mother be taken away by men who embodied and reveled in pure evil. they were cracks in the wall that my grandmother had built.

then there were those days where i’d catch her looking at her arm, and the faded numbers that had overstayed their welcome there. it was like black paint on a white canvas only that canvas was a person and that paint had not been spilled accidentally, but tattooed into the arm of a young girl who had lost everything but her humanity - something the man who gave her the tattoo never had.

but worst of all, i remember how she’d frantically run about the kitchen to make me a meal when she learned i hadn’t eaten for a day. i asked her why.

“because, bubula, i know what hunger feels like.” she replied. i didnt quite understand the depth of that back then.

like how i didn’t understand the tremor in her hand when we walked past a group of teenage boys who made a hitler joke. how i didnt understand why she had to pull over on the side of the road to sob when she heard that a fellow holocaust survivor had died on the radio. 

my grandmother was a fighter and a survivor and she was a woman who was strong as steel and as sweet as honey-dew. she was a woman who gave and gave and gave, a woman who deserved all the stars in the sky and pearls in the sea.

my grandmother was ripped from the arms of her family, she thrown into the deepest pit of hell, and she survived the flames. because my grandmother was a survivor of the holocaust.

never forget.



hello, goodbyes hung on our lips
the beginning of us, those swingin’ doors
hearts not the same as they were before

      i remember those days when love kept us waiting all night
        for headlights

if your passions and talents hurt no one they should be accepted by the people around you. you deserve someone in your life who gets why you stayed up until one in the morning finishing that chapter, who shakes their head and says you should really get more sleep, but who asks how it went. you deserve friends that want to see your art and are proud of you for making it. you deserve being honored sometimes: “she’s the best at math,” “he’s our actor,” “they’re honestly freakishly good at knitting.” you deserve people who listen and remember what you love.

and be that person for others. when someone lights up about something only to stop themselves from talking, gently push them. promise them you’re listening. and listen. be the person who tells them it’s okay that the stuff they make is weird as long as they create. we live in a world where loving things is seen as weak. that it’s lame to enjoy things. but let people triple-text you about their headcanon theories. you’ll find that you’ve surrounded yourself with happy.

just think about how happy scott was to hear lydia say “you said remember I love you”. Scott mccall who has been rooting for these two since the third grade probably, who has on so many occasions been the biggest stydia shipper in the room, the one who always looks so fucking proud when he see’s the two of them getting closer. he probably saw lydias reaction to hearing stiles’ voice, and remembers her saying “i think I loved him” and his heart is so full of joy